


From Winter to Spring

by wherewillwego



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Implied Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Implied Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon and Sansa are Cousins, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-01-06 02:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherewillwego/pseuds/wherewillwego
Summary: A jonsa-centric story set at the end of season 6/beginning of season 7.Jon and Sansa must navigate negotiating with two queens, fighting the Army of the Dead, and figuring out those pesky feelings of theirs.Told from Jon's, Sansa's, Dany's, and sometimes Cersei's POV.I am not 100% familiar with medieval jargon, nor am I an expert on Westeros geography. For purposes of keeping the story smooth, some language is modern and journeys are brief





	1. Chapter 1

_JON_

Jon flexed his hands under the table as Littlefinger spoke to the council. A nerve in his jaw twitched as he listened, and he had to talk himself down to keep from standing up and interrupting. The man got under his skin like no other had before, and the fact that he had the nerve to speak at _Jon’s _council, in _Jon’s_ castle, to _Jon’s_ people made it all worse.

_We_, he kept saying.

_We need to make allies with the Dragon Queen, or we will not win this war._

Jon wasn’t sure why this was the pronoun Littlefinger continued to use. Last time he checked, Littlefinger was _not_ the Lord of the Vale, and he had not pledged any sort of allegiance to House Stark. Jon also could not understand Littlefinger’s obsession with allying with the Dragon Queen; since the arrival of the raven a few days past, it was all the man wanted to speak about at council meetings, which Sansa insisted he attend.

Jon looked to her then to see if she had picked up on Littlefinger’s choice of words.

She was sitting across the map from him, her pale, slender hands clasped atop the table and her lips pressed together. She wore a simple, grey gown, and most of her auburn hair was braided out of her face, but some strands fell on either side of her shoulders. She didn’t look to Littlefinger as he spoke; she kept her Tully blue eyes trained on the map.

Although she kept her eyes in place, Jon knew she was listening. The slight raise of one thin eyebrow, a quirk in the corner of her mouth, a muscle twitch in her jaw… These were tell-tale signs that Sansa was paying attention, thinking, absorbing. He had been watching her, observing her, ever since she had arrived at Castle Black, shivering and starving and desperate for shelter.

He had been studying her, since that day, waiting for her to show any sign of discomfort so that he could fix it immediately. He had learned her body language, what she was thinking before she even uttered a word, and he knew that she had done the same to him.

As he always did, he cursed himself for thinking about her. His inner-dialogue was the same every time:

_She’s your sister. _

_Half-sister. _

_This is wrong. _

_Lord Eddard would murder me. _

_Does she feel it, too? _

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and his thumb. He and Sansa had spent so much time together over the last few moons that he wasn’t sure when this… _infatuation_ had begun.

All he knew was that it was eating at him, day after day, bit by bit, and he hated it.

“Thank you, Lord Baelish,” Jon heard himself say. He wasn’t even sure if Littlefinger had still been speaking. He didn’t look to the man, but heard him take his seat once more; Sansa would chastise him later for being rude.

“Lord Baelish is right, Your Grace,” Ser Davos advised from Jon’s right. Jon could feel the old man’s eyes on him, but he refused to return the look. “The Dragon Queen would make for the perfect ally. She has a powerful army, not to mention three dragons. Wouldn’t you say that might help against the Army of the Dead?”

“Aye, it would help,” Jon said.

“_Help?_” Tormund barked out from Jon’s left. “Three dragons would win the damn war.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He still wasn’t sure if he wanted to travel across the sea to Dragonstone to meet with this _queen_, this _stranger_. He had just returned home, and he didn’t quite look forward to leaving so soon.

"If I decided to meet with her, I would go myself. I wouldn’t be sending an emissary.” He glanced up at Sansa; no reaction. “I would need to make sure she knew who she was making a deal with, and I would need to be the one to set the terms.”

“And how can you be sure she’ll help us?” Littlefinger drawled, and Jon cringed at that word, _us_. He was sure that the only reason Littlefinger was still around was for a prize, a prize for aiding Jon during the Battle of the Bastards. Jon had a fairly good idea of what he wanted, but refused to speak life into the horrible thought. “She’ll want something in return. Perhaps… a marriage?”

“Any man here looking to get married any time soon?” Ser Davos asked lightheartedly, and a few of the lords laughed uncomfortably.

Littlefinger smiled ruefully. “I was speaking of you, Your Grace.”

Jon straightened. He couldn’t help his eyes flicking towards Sansa. She still did not look up, but her jaw was set dangerously. He tried not to put too much weight on the reaction.

“You’re suggesting I offer myself up in marriage for extra men and a few dragons?” Jon questioned.

Littlefinger inclined his head. “I am, Your Grace,” he responded. “It makes sense, politically and militarily, and, if the rumors are true, the Dragon Queen is very young and beautiful.”

“I should marry a stranger for her beauty, then?”

“Men do it all the time,” Littlefinger said with a wave of his hand. “A marriage is the surest way to create an ally, Your Grace.”

“And what happens when this Dragon Queen goes for the Iron Throne, Baelish?” Jon prompted, heat rising to his cheeks. “I reign beside her, as king? And the North is once again under southern rule.” Littlefinger squinted slightly, his green eyes flashing only briefly. “I will not give up the North. There will be no more talk of marriage.”

Jon could not ignore Sansa’s quick smirk.

“Only a suggestion, Your Grace,” Littlefinger said quietly, bowing his head.

“You could offer to help her take back the throne, when the time comes,” Ser Davos said.

“Aye, but I don’t care about southern politics,” Jon grumbled. “Never have.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but you might should concern yourself with southern matters now that you are king. You should maintain a healthy relationship with whoever sits on the bloody chair,” Ser Davos replied lightly. “If sparing some men to help the Dragon Queen take back the throne means we defeat the Army of the Dead, well…” Ser Davos sighed. “Small price to pay.”

Jon dropped his head and looked back to the map laid out before them. So many locations spread out before him, all meaningless to him, all except Winterfell. The council meeting had gone on for longer than he liked, and he was starting to get a splitting headache with all the talk of the Dragon Queen.

“We need not make any decisions tonight,” Jon said, standing. Still, Sansa’s eyes did not move. “I think we’ve all had enough discussion. We can meet within the coming days to speak more on the matter.”

With a nod, all of his council began to stand and bow to him, trickling out one by one. Jon tried not to react to any of them; he had still not gotten used to people bowing to him, and he honestly preferred they didn’t.

Sansa stood next to last, meeting his eyes from across the table. Her slight smile told him that she was pleased with how the council went, and she nodded curtly to him as she dismissed herself. He knew that he would hear her thoughts later, so he did not chase after her.

Instead, Jon was left in the room with Littlefinger, of all people. He began to make his way towards the door, deciding to ask his steward to draw him a warm bath, but Littlefinger’s slippery voiced stopped him short.

“Your Grace,” he said, and Jon froze. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”

Jon turned slowly to face the other man. He had a twisted smile on his face, making him look even more vile than Jon knew him to be. Jon’s blood began to boil at the sight of him, and he told himself to not behave unreasonably, no matter what Littlefinger had to say.

“What is it?”

“I am sure you have not forgotten the favor I paid you during the Battle of the Bastards,” he said lowly, as if he had been reading Jon’s mind all along. The muscles in Jon’s right hand twitched. “I have been staying with you for several weeks now, and have been offered no thank you.”

“I am allowing you to stay in my castle as a guest of House Stark,” Jon snapped. “Is that not thanks enough?”

“For winning a battle?” Littlefinger asked, and then he chuckled. “Your Grace, the battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in. I saved your life. You owe me.”

Jon clenched his jaw and kept his eyes locked on the other, older man. He knew what was coming; he had been expecting it for quite some time now. Jon could not ignore the way Littlefinger eyed his half-sister, the way he traced after her as if he were her shadow. He and Sansa had spoken only briefly about Littlefinger, but she had not yet asked him to leave Winterfell.

And he had been the one to sell her to the Bolton’s.

“Fair enough, Lord Baelish,” Jon said bitingly. “What is it you ask of me?”

Littlefinger’s lips drew upwards in a sickening smile. “I believe you know, Your Grace,” he hissed.

Jon held his ground. “Tell me.”

“I would ask for Sansa’s hand in marriage,” Littlefinger said, each word hitting Jon square in the gut. Still, he remained frozen to the spot. Littlefinger pressed on, “Uniting the Vale and the North would be a smart move on your part. Sansa is young, and beautiful, and she has the right family name. Many more suitors will come after me, but I promise you, there will not be one better than I.” Jon lowered his eyebrows. “I would keep her safe.”

“_Safe?_” Jon mocked, his hands curling into fists at his side. He felt as if he were on the verge of ferocity once more; in his mind, he could picture Ramsay Bolton’s face underneath his fists, the blood of the bastard staining his leather. “Is that what you call all you’ve done? You stood by while she suffered for years in King’s Landing under Joffrey’s rule. You stole her away to the Eyrie, allowing her to be framed for the king’s murder, and then you murdered her aunt in front of her.” Littlefinger blinked in surprise as he realized Sansa had told Jon about Lysa Arryn’s death. Jon practically spit out, “You sold her to the Bolton’s.”

Littlefinger closed his eyes wearily. “I did not know about the boy-”

“That doesn’t matter,” Jon cut in. He began to back away from Littlefinger, and as he turned his back to the other man, he ground out, “You will not have her.”

“I love Sansa,” Littlefinger announced. Jon halted, turning slightly to hear the man better. “I have made mistakes, yes, but I love her, more than I ever dared to love her mother. You would be making a mistake, Your Grace-”

Littlefinger’s words were cut off, for Jon had wrapped his right hand around the older man’s throat and shoved him up against the wall. Littlefinger’s skull crunched jarringly as he was thrust against the stone, but Jon didn’t care. He tightened his hold on Littlefinger, finding delight in the way the other man scrambled for his neck, his face turning beet red at an alarming rate. Littlefinger’s eyes began to take on a horrifying purple tint, and his mouth opened and closed as if he were a fish gasping for air; Jon held tighter still.

“Touch my sister,” Jon growled, his adrenaline coursing to new heights, “and I’ll kill you myself.”

Jon released Littlefinger and stepped back from him as if he had been shocked. He watched as the other man crumpled to the floor, both of his aged hands holding his neck, his green eyes bulging like Jon had never seen before.

He wasn’t sure what had come over him. It was the same rush of bloodlust, the same fiery need to protect that had washed over him when he had finally come face to face with Ramsay. He had never felt so defensive, never for anyone before. Perhaps he may have felt this way about Arya when he was younger, but somehow, this was different. He wanted the other man dead, in the most brutal way possible, all because of his sister.

_Half-sister. _

“You will not have her,” Jon repeated to Littlefinger, who had regained some of his composure and had sat up slightly.

With that, Jon spun on his heels and stalked out of the hall, his hands, shaking, still in fists at his side.

_DAENERYS_

“I am sure we will hear back from him soon, Your Grace.”

Daenerys tilted her head as she stared into the flames, the embers lifting and disappearing within the fireplace. She was growing impatient, waiting on this “_king_” to respond to her invitation. It was true, she needed allies in Westeros, but she needn’t wait several moons before these supposed “allies” answered to her call. She was the queen, after all; it was insulting that he was not already on the shores of Dragonstone, bending the knee.

“I will not wait much longer,” she said icily, and although she did not look to her hand, she knew he had flinched. He had been flinching quite a lot lately.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Tyrion replied lightly, “but you must understand that he has much to consider, as well.”

“Like what?” Dany asked. She shifted in her chair, finding herself uncomfortable as the night went on. She had not been finding sleep as easily as she was used to, and it was beginning to weigh on her. “He calls himself king while he has no claim to any throne-”

“He does not want the throne,” Tyrion cut in daringly. Dany glared at him. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but he doesn’t. At least, he didn’t when I knew him, and I believe it is safe to assume that not much has changed.”

“Obviously something has changed,” Dany snapped. “You told me he once belonged to the Night’s Watch. Now he’s King in the North.”

“He wanted to go home,” Tyrion said with a shrug. “I don’t see much difference between that and what you’ve done.”

“I am _not_ staying in Dragonstone,” Dany hissed. “I will take back the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms. I cannot do that if there is a treasonous king claiming that he rules the North.”

“He will bend the knee, Your Grace,” Tyrion supplied, although he did not sound confident. “He will have to.”

“And why is that?”

“Fire and blood, Your Grace,” Tyrion said casually. “Fire and blood.”

_SANSA_

Sansa paid careful attention to her hair as she brushed it out. She had always been told that her hair was her best feature, the auburn waves that fell down to her elbows. Red hair was somewhat of a delicacy in the North, causing her to stand out wherever she went against the white snow. She took pride in her hair, for it was just as her mother’s had been, her brother’s, as well. Brushing out her hair was perhaps the second most calming activity to her, aside from sewing, of course.

She stood from her vanity and set her brush aside. She wrapped her robe tighter around herself, glancing to the partly open window where the northern winds seeped in.

Her mind was full of thoughts, each of them weighing heavily on her. Perhaps the loudest thought was that of Jon marrying the Dragon Queen.

It was obvious to her why Lord Baelish had been pushing the marriage so heavily. She was not blind to his motives; marrying Jon off would leave Sansa unguarded and unable to refuse a marriage to him. That was not what Sansa wanted, but she could not blatantly tell Lord Baelish no, for he was the most powerful ally that she and Jon had. Even though he was not the Lord of the Vale, he controlled the Vale, and the North needed the extra men, desperately.

Sansa sat in one of the chairs near the fireplace. Carved in the stone were direwolves, twisted around one another as if they might be playing. She felt a slight pang in her chest, and she knew it was longing for her Lady.

As if meaning to stop her train of thought, the door to her chamber burst open, and in strode the King in the North himself.

Sansa did not move to greet him or bow like another might have; instead, she tilted her head back to watch him sit in the chair next to her, an easy smile growing on her face. Jon’s hair was untied and damp, and he had shed his leather clothing in exchange for plain trousers and a dark green shirt, untied at the top so that his chest hair could be seen.

“Your Grace,” Sansa drawled jokingly as he leaned back in his chair. Jon only smiled and shook his head in response.

This had become quite the common occurrence, Jon visiting her in the evenings. The pair would sit near the fire, talking until one of them grew too tired to stay up any longer. Most nights, Ghost would join them, as well, and occasionally, Tormund, Brienne, and Podrick would sit with them. Tonight, it was just the two of them, and Sansa could not figure out why she was happy that the others weren’t there.

“What did you think of the meeting?” Jon asked her as he crossed his hands on top of his stomach. Sansa glanced to him, a playful glint in his Stark eyes. He looked so comfortable, leaned back in his chair with his head tipped back. “Did I handle everything well enough?”

“I believe so,” Sansa replied. “Although you could have been more open to the idea of marriage.”

“You want me to get married?” Jon asked, and Sansa could not ignore the shock in his voice.

“Of course not,” she said quickly, attempting to maintain a laidback tone. “But Lord Baelish is right. It would be smart.”

“I’m sure it would be,” Jon grumbled.

“Then why not consider it?”

“I don’t want to marry her,” Jon said.

“But what if you do?” Sansa asked carefully, picking at the hem of one of her dress robe’s sleeves. Jon did not know this Dragon Queen yet and, if the rumors were true, she was quite beautiful.

“I don’t,” Jon repeated, and Sansa decided to not push the subject any further.

“But you’re going to go, aren’t you?” she asked. “To Dragonstone.”

Jon sat up then, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He ran a hand through his curls and closed his eyes. “I don’t have much choice,” he said. “We need her dragons, but…”

“But what?” Sansa pressed.

“I don’t want to leave here,” Jon admitted, clasping his hands together and looking to her. His eyes had gone soft, as they often did during the evening, and Sansa did not like the way they made her stomach flutter. “We just returned home. I’m afraid that if I leave, it’ll be taken from us, that you’ll-” He cut himself off, tearing his eyes from her and shaking his head.

“That I’ll what?” Sansa felt her heart begin to sink. “You don’t think I’d try to undermine you, do you?”

“Of course not,” Jon said softly. Sansa let out a breath. “I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” Sansa argued, although she did not want Jon to leave for the same reason. “I have Brienne, and Podrick.”

“Podrick,” Jon deadpanned, and Sansa smiled.

“Brienne will keep me safe,” Sansa assured. “She always has. I have no reason to doubt her, and neither do you.”

“I know, but…” Jon’s eyebrows drew together and he looked as if he was struggling with what to say next. One word came, “Littlefinger.”

Sansa’s smile dropped. “I can handle Lord Baelish.”

“I know you can, but I don’t trust him,” Jon said, his gentleness fading for a moment. “I don’t like leaving you here with him. I don’t want him… _trying_ anything.”

Sansa cringed at Jon’s words, her cheeks blushing wildly at Littlefinger’s past advances. He had only tried to kiss her once since they had returned to Winterfell, but maybe that was because Jon was always around…

Sansa banished the thought.

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” Jon snapped, and when Sansa looked to him, his eyes were hard. He seemed suddenly bothered, as if the chair had grown uncomfortable and the room too warm.

“Jon?” Sansa questioned, and when he did not respond, she laid a gentle hand on his arm. It surprised her how easy it was to touch Jon; he was the only man she could. “Jon,” she repeated. He peered at her, his eyebrows lifted slightly, the way they always did when she touched him. Sansa had grown acutely aware of Jon’s body language, and she could tell he was keeping something from her, something that he hadn’t planned on sharing. “Did something happen?”

Jon sighed heavily and looked back to the fire. “Littlefinger stayed after the council meeting,” he admitted. “He said he required something in return for helping us during the battle.”

Sansa’s stomach dropped to her feet. She knew this had been coming all along, she just wasn’t sure why Lord Baelish was taking his sweet time in asking for it. Her skin began to crawl at the idea of a life as Lady Baelish. She could not bear the thought of marrying him, living with him, having to bear his children-

“And?”

Jon looked to her hand, still on his arm. “He asked for your hand in marriage.”

Sansa was not surprised, and yet her heart was hammering in her ears. “What did you say?”

“No, of course,” Jon said sharply.

“Is that all?” Jon scowled. “_Jon_.”

“He said that he loved you,” Jon practically spit out, “and that he could keep you safe.”

_Safe_. The word sounded like a hiss, like the screeching of a dying animal, in her ears.

“What did you say?”

“I… I choked him,” Jon said carefully.

“_Jon_,” she reprimanded as she drew her hand back. Jon rolled his eyes, presumably expecting this would be her reaction. “You can’t do that.”

“And why not?” Jon asked, straightening. His shoulders were broad, much broader than hers, and he loomed over her even though she was taller. His head was tilted back slightly, as if he was daring her to argue back; he knew she would. “He is a guest in my home. He has no right to ask anything of me, or you, not after what he’s done.”

“What he’s _done_? He helped us win the battle,” Sansa said evenly. “You cannot treat him that way.”

“You always defend him,” Jon said disgustedly, turning away from her.

“Because he’s our best ally!” Sansa burst. “The Knights of the Vale are our strongest force, and he controls the Vale. He may as well be the lord. He will be once Robin dies. You cannot offend him after what he’s done to help us.”

“Alright, I’ll play nice,” Jon growled, whirling back around to face her, “but I won’t let him have you.”

Sansa was taken aback by the ferocity in his tone. Whatever it was that had propelled Jon to behave so rashly washed all of her anger away. Perhaps it was only brotherly protection, but her mind took her back to a time when she was held captive in King’s Landing, being tossed from man to man, and Robb had done nothing to save her.

“He won’t have me,” Sansa repeated softly. What she did next was done almost involuntarily; she placed a slender hand on Jon’s cheek, holding his face steadily. Jon leaned into her touch, his skin rough and smooth at the same time in her palm. “I am not leaving. I am never leaving.”

Jon closed his eyes. “But I have to.”

Sansa dropped her hand into her own lap, and Jon’s eyes popped open. Sansa did not agree with him going to meet the Dragon Queen himself; it was dangerous and far too south for her liking. She wanted to argue with him, beg him not to go, but tonight was not the night.

Instead, she forced herself to smile placidly and said, “So you’ll go. And you’ll come back.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a super unconventional, (admittedly) lame, and probably unrealistic way for Jon's parentage to spread, but I needed it to happen - please be kind. 
> 
> Just a little warning: Sansa's trauma from living with Ramsay does come up in this chapter. Details are not explicitly mentioned, but it is referenced. 
> 
> Also, thank you all for the encouraging and helpful comments. It means a lot!

_DAENERYS_

Varys stood with his back as straight as possible. His hands were clasped in front of his stomach, as always, and his brow was furrowed. His eyes were like small, round stones, unblinking and never looking away from Dany.

He was one of the few members of her council who dared to question her.

“How do you know this to be fact?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It has always been rumored, Your Grace,” Varys said carefully, his bald head tilting to one side. “It comes as no shock that the woman bore a child. I never put much thought into it. I considered the babe to be dead, as the mother was. That is, until my little birds overheard a man talking to his wife on the road to Winterfell.”

“Go on,” Dany prodded.

“The man’s name is Samwell Tarly,” Varys answered. “He’s a trained maester from the citadel, on his way to serve at Winterfell. He and his wife were speaking of a secret marriage between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark that had been recorded in one of the grand maester’s record books. This struck me as rather curious, considering the story that we all know so well about poor Lyanna Stark and what happened to her. Also in the book was mention of a babe born soon after Rhaegar left for his final battle, but no one seemed to know who the father was. After hearing this, I sent word to the only other man who survived the Tower of Joy next to honorable Eddard Stark.”

“Who might that man be?” Tyrion questioned from Dany’s side.

“Howland Reed,” Varys said. “A northern lord who was very close with Lord Eddard. I was honest with him. I told him that I was in support of you, my queen, and requested he tell me whether he knew of any babe born to Lyanna that may have been Robert’s. Lord Reed said no, but that Lyanna _had_ born a child.” Varys shrugged. “After that, I could get no more out of him. He seemed to have realized the weight of the information he had shared.” Varys chuckled slyly and added, “The poor man was very drunk. I am surprised he did not tell more.”

Dany dug her nails into her palms, willing herself to not lash out. “Thank you for your work, Lord Varys,” she said slowly, and Varys bowed. “This information cannot leave this castle.”

“Your Grace, if he _is _your nephew, and he knew that, he might be more inclined to help-” Tyrion began. 

“Or he might try to claim the throne as his own,” Dany snapped, her blood boiling at the thought of it. “He would have the better claim, and he already has one of the Seven Kingdoms behind him. It wouldn’t take long to add to that.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said carefully, his crooked lips attempting a poor smile, “I know this must be hard to swallow, but-”

Dany narrowed her violet eyes at him and bit out, “This information does _not_ leave this castle.”

Tyrion’s mouth snapped shut and bowed his shaggy head. Dany could tell that he wanted to say more, but she was in no mood.

She turned her back to him and squared her shoulders. If she did have a nephew, then so be it. Family had never been kind to her, anyways. Family betrayed you, hurt you, used you. She did not need another person to come into her life and do those things to her.

No, Dany did not need a new family member; she needed an ally.

_JON_

Jon blinked heavily as he continued to sharpen Longclaw. The light from the hearth in his chamber danced on the Valyrian steel, shining and glinting. Jon’s shoulders were slumped as he worked, the weight of exhaustion sitting on him.

Jon did not sleep much. Truth be told, he hadn’t slept very much at all since he had been brought back from the dead. Every time he closed his eyes, his so-called brothers’ faces were staring down at him, their lips sneering as the life bled out of him. Instead of sleeping, Jon would busy himself by sharpening Longclaw, signing letters, or cleaning his leathers until sleep was evident. Then, and only then, would he retire to his bed for a few hours of rest.

He tried not to think of the chamber next to his, of the woman inside. The day had gone fairly smoothly between the two of them, and Jon feared the moment when Sansa finally told him exactly how she felt about his journey to Dragonstone. It was evident that she did not want him to go, but he wasn’t sure why. She claimed she would be safe with Brienne protecting her, but perhaps she didn’t want to admit that she would feel safer with him around.

A sound erupted from somewhere in the castle, a stifled, sob-like sound that Jon couldn’t place. He ignored it, for his eyelids had dropped heavily and his hands had stilled on his sword. Beside him, Ghost lay with his head on his paws, dozing happily.

Jon could feel himself slipping into slumber, his breathing slowing and his mind calming, and he welcomed it openly. He had spent many hours in the training yard that day, and he thought sleep might come easier to him that evening-

This time, it was no sob that penetrated the stone walls of Jon’s chamber; it was a scream. Jon’s eyes snapped open, fearing the worst, and he snatched Longclaw from between his legs and jumped to his feet. Ghost leapt up, as well, the massive wolf shoulder to shoulder with Jon as he followed him. Jon’s heart hammered in his chest, sleep forgotten. He pushed through his door and made his way to the door next to his, where Brienne was already fumbling with the knob.

Brienne locked eyes with him, and as another desperate cry came from the other side of the door, she started helplessly, “Your Grace-”

“Step aside, Brienne,” Jon growled, and Brienne immediately did as she was told. Jon burst through the door and hurried into the chamber, his right hand gripping Longclaw tighter than ever. Ghost came after him, a growl erupting from low within the direwolf’s throat.

To Jon’s brief relief, there was no intruder in Sansa’s bedchamber; there never was, but Jon refused to leave Longclaw in his own room.

Instead, his half-sister was thrashing about amongst her furs, her long limbs tangled in her own skirt. Jon hurried to her side, leaning Longclaw against her bed. Ghost came, as well, sitting next to where Jon stood and laying his huge head on the bed. Jon took her shoulders in his hands as Ghost began to whine.

“_Please_, don’t!” Sansa begged. Her skin was alarmingly pale and clammy, sweat cascading down her cheeks and disappearing under the collar of her dress robe. Her chest rose and fell heavily, and Jon was afraid she might hyperventilate if he didn’t act quickly.

“Sansa, wake up,” Jon commanded, holding her steadily so that she did not accidentally hit him. He could feel his heart in his throat, the desperation to help her overwhelming him. “Sansa, it’s me. It’s Jon.”

A choked sob escaped her, and it sounded as if she was in pain that was all too real. A deep breath was cut off, and she screwed her eyelids up before continuing to gulp for air.

This, unfortunately, was a regular occurrence. Every couple of nights, Jon would be awoken by Sansa’s desperate cries. His sweet half-sister was trapped somewhere inside a night terror, and he was the only one who could drag her out. Brienne had tried, of course, but she never could bring Sansa back to reality as Jon could.

Tears were pouring from the corners of Sansa’s shut eyes. Jon shook her shoulders gently but forcefully, trying to jar her awake. Her fists were balled in the furs, her knuckles white.

“Sansa,” Jon tried again, his throat closing. He felt a mix of hatred and sorrow, and the feeling was no less than the first time he had discovered Sansa in the midst of a night terror. He could feel a thick lump in his throat, threatening to make him cry, and it was only ignored because of the rage that rushed through his veins. “Wake up, Sansa, wake up.”

As if struck by lightning, Sansa bolted upright in bed. Jon let go of her shoulders immediately and sat back on the mattress, his chest heaving as he watched her. 

Sansa’s blue eyes cleared upon opening, and she clutched the furs to her chest as if to hide herself. She used her feet to push herself back, up against the headboard, as far away from Jon as she could get. She was gulping for breath, tears still coming as she looked desperately around the room.

“Sansa,” Jon tried carefully, placing a gentle hand on her knee. She flinched at the contact, drawing both of her knees up to her chest in defense. Jon pulled his hand back as if he had been scorched, and he tried to not take her actions too personally. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

Sansa blinked several times and stared at him; Jon could almost see the gears turning in her head. Eventually, she let out a shaky breath and laid her forehead on her knees, her shoulders shaking lightly as she cried.

Jon glanced to the door, where Brienne still stood, her hand on the pommel of her sword. Sansa’s sworn sword’s eyebrows were drawn, and the look on her face made Jon respect her even more than he already did; it was clear that Brienne loved Sansa. “Leave us,” Jon said without making eye contact with her. Brienne nodded once and closed the door.

“Why?” Sansa’s voice, muffled by the furs, was hoarse from crying. Jon did not know what to say. “Why does this happen? Why can’t I get rid of him?”

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted, his head full of thoughts. It hurt his heart to think of what was done to Sansa – sweet, kind, beautiful Sansa – and he had not been able to stop it. “I wish I knew how to help.”

Sansa looked up at him then, her cheeks splotchy from crying and her blue eyes watery. Her bottom lip trembled when she said, “Me, too.” Her eyes slid to where Longclaw sat against her bed, and her lips twitched into a poor excuse for a smile. “I thought we talked about that.”

Jon followed her eyes to Longclaw and couldn’t help but smile softly. “Aye, we did.”

“So why do you continue to bring it?”

“Just in case,” Jon answered honestly, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. He hoped she couldn’t hear it. 

The firelight danced in Sansa’s auburn hair, making it even more stunning than usual. She looked breathtaking, even after waking up from a nightmare, even after crying, and Jon hated himself for thinking in such a way.

“Did I wake you?” Sansa asked carefully, as she always did.

Jon shook his head. “No,” he replied, although he had been almost asleep when he’d heard her. It didn’t matter to him what he was doing; if Sansa needed him, he would go to her. “I don’t sleep much.”

“I know,” she whispered, pulling her eyes from his. They had spoken about Jon’s poor sleeping patterns, but neither of them knew how to fix his problem. “Not a very good habit to keep as a king.”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be the only one with night terrors if I tried to sleep any more than I do,” Jon admitted.

“Perhaps some ale would help?” Sansa asked, wrapping her slender arms around her legs.

“Does it help you?”

“No.”

“Was it…” Jon clasped his hands and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He cleared his throat, hating himself for having to ask. “Was it bad tonight?”

Sansa did not look at him. She had a far-off look in her eyes, one that Jon feared he would see; it meant she was thinking of another time. “It’s been worse.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” was Sansa’s immediate response.

Sansa rarely spoke about her time with Ramsay. In fact, the only time she had mentioned it explicitly to Jon was when she had arrived at Castle Black, and Jon had demanded to know why she was in the state that she had been in. It had been the hardest conversation of his life, learning what she had been through, even before Ramsay had gotten ahold of her.

Jon nearly jumped when he felt Sansa’s hand on his wrist. He turned to look at her, hopeful, although he wasn’t sure what for. Her skin had returned to its normal color, although her eyes were heavy from exhaustion and crying.

“Thank you for coming,” she said gently, her Tully eyes swimming. “You always do.”

“I always will,” Jon countered. A beat passed between the two of them, unexplained energy shifting and causing Jon to feel a rush of heat over his cheeks. “You should try to get some sleep,” Jon whispered, desperate to go back to his own chamber where he could think of her in solitude. 

Sansa shook her head. “I never can,” she admitted. “Every time I close my eyes, I just see-” She cut herself off, looking away from Jon hastily.

Jon knew this, but he tried all the same, anyways. She never could sleep after one of her night terrors – Jon couldn’t blame her – but it was why he went on to say what he did.

“Alright, I’ll take the chair.” He said it with the slightest quirk of his mouth, the smallest hint of a poor inside joke that they shared, just the two of them. He always stayed in one of her chairs next to the fireplace, and before the sun would rise, he would creep out of her room and retire to his own for a few restless hours. He never did sleep well, and his muscles were always sore the next day, but he didn’t mind, just as long as it meant she could go back to sleep.

Ghost picked his head up off the bed and meandered towards the hearth. He curled up next to the hearth and sighed before he laid down.

“You could…” Sansa started, and she chewed at her bottom lip nervously, her eyebrows drawn together. “You could stay here.” She flattened her palm against the space in the bed next to her.

Jon raised his eyebrows. He had spent the night in the same room as her, of course, but never in the same bed. He knew that sharing a bed was not uncommon for brothers and sisters – he and Arya had shared a bed several times in the past – but somehow it felt entirely different. Jon’s palms began to sweat profusely as he imagined lying next to Sansa.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” Sansa spluttered, her cheeks the same color as her hair. “I just thought, well, it might help both of us. It might help me, having you near, and I know you don’t sleep, and when you sleep in the chair, well, it can’t be any better than a bed. I can hardly sleep, either, and-” She stuttered to a pitiful end, twisting her hands together nervously and refusing to meet his eyes.

“I-” he began.

She cut him off, “I’m sorry. I should’ve never suggested it. It wasn’t ladylike of me. I shouldn’t-”

“I will,” Jon interrupted.

Sansa’s eyes widened as her lips snapped shut.

He wasn’t sure why he said it. Perhaps it was the thought of Robb and Sansa sharing a bed when they were younger, and the innocence in it, or perhaps it was the desperate, scared look that had been in Sansa’s eyes when she had awoken, and the knowledge that him being next to her might finally bring her some rest.

Whatever it was, Jon felt his legs begin to move of their own accord, towards the bed where Sansa sat. He knew it wasn’t smart, knew that his feelings for her would only become more muddled, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Silently, Sansa scooted over for him, the furs dropping to her pool around her waist at last, although she was still covered in full by her dress robe. Jon sat gingerly on the mattress, over the covers, and stretched his legs out, leaning back against the headboard and pillows gratefully. He could’ve fallen asleep at once, but she began to speak.

“I used to share a bed with Robb during storms,” Sansa said as she quietly squirmed downwards until her head rested on the pillow once more. Jon looked down at her, blinking softly, waiting for her to go on. Her hair fanned out against the pillow, beautiful against the grey. “I hated the thunder, and he knew, so he’d let me under the covers with him. He told me he’d protect me from the thunder, and the lightning, and the rain, too.” Sansa smiled softly despite herself. “I believed him.”

“He would’ve, if it were possible,” Jon whispered.

“He didn’t come for me,” Sansa said sadly. “He didn’t come for me, or Arya.”

Jon chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to think of an appropriate response. Robb was fighting a war; how could he have had time to think of his sisters?

But Jon did. Jon thought of his siblings every day at the Wall.

“It’s alright,” Sansa whispered sleepily before Jon could respond. Her eyes were closed. “You don’t have to say anything. I know why he didn’t. I just…” She sighed. “I miss him.”

“Me, too,” Jon admitted, and he folded his hands across his belly. He was so warm, from the top of his head to his toes, warmer than he had been in a long time, and he tried not to credit that fact to Sansa lying next to him. 

He meant to say something encouraging to her, to tell her that they would be proud, all of them, especially her mother, but he found that once he closed his eyes, he could not open them once more.

When he awoke, he was still sitting up, with his head leaned back against the headboard. Sansa was laying on her right side, her lips parted softly as she slept. Her right hand was curled up underneath her chin, and her left hand was gripped protectively around his forearm.

The sun was just beginning to filter in through the window.

_SANSA_

Sansa awoke to the sound of someone – presumably Brienne – knocking on her door and Ghost softly barking in response. She jerked awake, sitting straight up in bed, her dress robe barely clinging onto her shoulders in her haste. Though her vision was blurry, she could just make out another person next to her. Jon was on his feet in a flash, and as he strode to the door, Sansa couldn’t tell whether or not he’d slept at all. His curly locks were mussed, although they always were.

“_Jon_,” Sansa hissed as his hand closed around the doorknob. Her throat was dry from sleep. She clambered out of the bed, flinging the furs off her and hurrying to stop him. He spun around, his eyes wide open and his lips parted. “You’re in _my_ chambers, remember?”

Jon yanked his hand back from the knob of the door. Sansa nodded as he stepped backwards, out of view from anyone in the doorway. She desperately ran her fingers through her hair and pulled her door open just a bit. Podrick stood on the other side.

“M’lady,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. He looked nervous, as always, and his cheeks were slightly flushed. “His Grace was not in his chambers, so I was sent to you instead.”

“What is it, Podrick?”

“A visitor arrived just moments ago,” Podrick said, glancing around anxiously. “He said Jon – er, _His Grace_ – knew him and would want to see him.”

“Who was the visitor?”

Podrick look pained. “I didn’t get his name,” he admitted, lowering his eyes. “Forgive me, m’lady.”

“No matter,” Sansa said kindly, waving her hand. “Take our visitor to the Great Hall. I will dress and find Jon.”

Podrick bowed once more and scurried off, as quickly as he came. Sansa shut the door quietly.

Jon stood with his hands dangling awkwardly at his sides. He looked as if he wanted to run away and stay rooted to the spot at the same time. Sansa stood silently, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting for him to speak first. Chill bumps exploded on her arms from the lack of fire in the fireplace.

“You slept well?” he inquired, his voice husky from sleep.

Sansa smiled, despite herself.

She and Jon had never shared a bed; he was the only sibling of hers that she had never slept beside. She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to ask him to stay. Perhaps it was because she knew, somehow, that he would make her feel better. He was the only person that made her feel truly safe, the only person who made her forget Ramsay’s sickening touch on her skin, and he was her brother.

_Half-brother._

“Yes,” she admitted bashfully, her cheeks pinkening. “And you?”

Jon’s pouty lips formed a quick smile, as if he meant to fight it but simply could not. Sansa’s heart stuttered at the sight. “I did,” he said, dropping his eyes. Sansa felt a strange, squirming feeling in her stomach. They never behaved this shyly around one another. “I suppose… we have a guest to meet?”

“We do,” Sansa said, inclining her head; a few waves of auburn hair fell over her shoulder, and she remembered that she’d just woken up. “Oh gods,” she groaned, her hands flying to her hair. “I must look horrible.”

“You don’t,” Jon blurted.

Sansa could not meet his eyes. She continued to fuss with her hair, her cheeks burning wildly. Surely, he meant nothing by the comment – he was only being polite, as any king or brother would be – but she could not fight the fiery wave of heat that washed over her face.

“I, uh,” Jon stuttered. His voice sounded constrained, awkward. “I should go dress and… see to our guest.”

“Yes, I, as well,” Sansa agreed.

And with that, Jon slipped through the door and was gone.

Sansa shook her head, attempting to clear her fuzzy thoughts, and went to her vanity. She almost groaned once more at the sight of her puffy eyelids, her blotched cheeks, her tangled hair. She set to work diligently, brushing through her hair with such concentration that she kept most of her thoughts of Jon at bay.

Sansa braided her hair to the side over her right shoulder, applied ointments to the skin on her face, and shed her dress robe. She avoided looking in the mirror, for fear of catching sight of her scars, and dressed in a lilac-colored gown with direwolves dancing along the hem. She snatched her cloak from its place – draped over one of her chairs near the hearth – and fastened it around her shoulders before exiting her chamber.

Smoothing her hands over her skirts, Sansa made her way to the Great Hall. Inside, she heard loud, booming voices and plenty of laughter. She pushed her way through the doors and was met with a view that sent her heart soaring.

Jon Snow had his hands placed on another man’s shoulders, and he was smiling wider than Sansa had ever seen before. He had changed into his leathers and his hair was tied back; he did not look a trace nervous as he had earlier.

The man talking to Jon must have been Samwell Tarly, Sansa decided. He was a short, round man with a thick beard and kind brown eyes. His smile was just as wide as Jon’s, and he held onto her brother’s elbows tightly as they spoke. There was a woman holding a baby standing next to Samwell, which is what led Sansa to the man’s identity.

Jon had told her many stories about Samwell Tarly and his wildling woman, Gilly, and her son, Sam. Samwell was Jon’s best, closest friend. Jon never smiled as much as he did whenever he spoke to Sansa about his friend from the Wall, the man who slayed a White Walker, the smartest man he’d ever met. Sansa would sit for hours by the fireplace, a jug of ale in her hands and a blanket across her lap, and listen to Jon talk about Sam, and other men: Mormont, Ed, Pyp, Grenn. Sansa loved to hear him talk about all of them, about the good times he’d had at the Wall.

It was clear to Sansa, as the two men embraced, that Jon had missed Samwell Tarly very much.

As Jon backed away from Samwell, he glanced towards the door and noticed Sansa. His smile dropped, but his eyes remained soft. He placed a hand on Samwell’s shoulder and steered him away from the approaching giant, redheaded wildling and towards where she stood.

She smoothed her skirts once more.

“Sam,” Jon said as he approached, his eyes light, “this is my sister, Sansa Stark. The Lady of Winterfell and my chosen heir.” Jon’s lips curved as he introduced the two, and Sansa felt her heart surge in her chest. He looked strangely proud, as if he had been waiting to introduce her to Samwell.

“Sansa, of course,” Samwell said, and he reached for her hand. He had a sweet voice, like a grandfather’s, and his smile was gentle. Sansa offered her hand and he kissed it gently. “I could’ve guessed which sister this was.” Samwell nodded to her. “Red hair.”

“Jon’s told you of me, and Arya?” Sansa asked, a bit taken aback.

“Of course, my lady,” Samwell said with a sideways grin. “There’s not much to talk about at the Wall other than what your life was like before. Jon told me all about his brothers and sisters. Why, I could’ve picked you all out of a lineup, had I been given the chance.”

Sansa beamed. “It is very nice to meet you at last, Samwell,” she said. “Jon has spoken of you often.”

“Please, call me Sam.” Sam glanced to his side as Gilly slid in next to him. “And this is Gilly, and little Sam.”

Gilly smiled and curtsied awkwardly; Sansa respected her for trying.

“Please to meet you, m’lady,” Gilly said in an extremely northern accent.

“And you,” Sansa said sweetly. She reached for little Sam’s cheek, and he snatched her finger. She giggled at the baby, his blue eyes dancing at her. “And it’s nice to meet you, little Sam.”

Little Sam grinned and turned away shyly, burying his head into his mother’s neck.

Jon spoke up then. “Sam has come to be our new maester,” he said. He lifted his eyebrows slightly, almost as if he were asking Sansa’s permission.

“That’s… wonderful,” Sansa said slowly. “But what about Maester Wolkan?”

“I sent him away,” Jon said quickly, implying that there would be no more discussion about it in front of the others.

Sansa – feeling the ghost of a maester’s fingers prodding at her, stitching up wounds she could not reach – agreed to drop the subject. She did not oppose to having Maester Wolkan gone from Winterfell, no matter how honest of a man he may have been; he worked for Ramsay, and that was enough.

“Well, then,” Sansa said after clearing her throat, “it seems as if Sam has arrived just in time. Welcome to Winterfell. I’ll have the maester’s chambers cleaned and refurnished for you.” Sansa glanced towards Gilly and added, “Perhaps we’ll have a larger bed brought in as well. And more chairs, yes?”

While Gilly merely blinked at her, Sam smiled thankfully. “Thank you, my lady,” he said genuinely. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to be back with Jon.”

“I do not doubt it,” Sansa said. She slid her eyes to Jon and said, “Perhaps my brother will smile more now that his best friend has come to join him.”

Suddenly, Sam’s gentle brown eyes grew cloudy, and his smile faltered. Jon had been rolling his eyes at her quip, but even he could not ignore Sam’s sudden change in demeanor.

“What is it, Sam?” Jon asked in a low voice. “What’s the matter?”

“N-nothing,” Sam spluttered, his cheeks flushing. He refused to look at Jon; he stared at his sweaty palms. “I just… we need to talk.”

“Of course,” Jon said, nodding solemnly. “But first, we should break our fast. You must be starving from traveling, and Sansa and I have yet to-”

“I don’t think you’ll want to wait any longer,” Sam interrupted, his thick eyebrows drawing together as he met Jon’s eyes. “I’m sorry, but I need to tell you this. It’s one of the reasons I came all this way.”

Jon glanced at Sansa, his eyes questioning, but she was as lost as he was. He nodded at Sam, and soon, Sansa found herself seated in her own solar, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some violence and reference to sexual abuse.

_JON _

The bite of the northern wind did not bother Jon; it never had. Even as a child, he would find himself sitting in the snow, gladly letting the wind nip at his nose. Now, he welcomed the harsh, icy flakes that pelted his cheeks, glad to feel _something_ other than anger. He balled his fists and flexed his fingers, his muscles unbearably tense.

The northern world swirled and blurred around him as he stalked through the courtyard. The castle was behind him, looming like an ominous shadow over his shoulder.

Jon could not believe what Sam had told him, yet he had no choice. There was no denying the honesty in Sam’s quivering voice, nor what Bran had told him.

Sam had met Bran on his way to Winterfell, and together, the two discussed the truth of Jon’s parentage. Bran had seen it in what Sam had called “visions”, and Sam had read about it in the citadel’s library. Jon wasn’t sure about Bran or his _visions_, but Sam recalled stories of the Children and their Three-Eyed Raven, confirming that it was possible that Bran had greensight. Sam had begged Bran to come to Winterfell with him, but Bran had refused, insisting that he couldn’t go to Winterfell yet, not before he had seen everything. He promised that a girl named Meera Reed was taking good care of him, and that he would be home soon.

Jon had been furious with Sam for not forcing Bran to come home, but Sam had told him how desperate Bran had been to not enter the castle’s gates yet, and Sam had no idea how far back he had met Bran.

The honorable Lord Eddard Stark had lied to him for eighteen years of his life. He had lied to everyone, even his own wife and children. Jon had always known that he wasn’t a true Stark, but he had held onto the truth that at least he was Lord Eddard’s child, if nothing else; even that was a lie.

Jon was no Stark; he was Aegon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne and rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

This frustrated Jon even further. He did not even want to be the King in the North, yet his dedication to his home and his family had coerced him to accept; the second the information of his parentage got out, he would be called the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon bit the inside of his lip to keep from cursing aloud.

He could hear the clatter of low-born men dueling one another in the training yard, tossing off-handed jokes left and right. It was all white noise to him, all senseless chatter, until one man was louder than the rest.

“Winner of this one gets to ask for Lady Stark’s hand in marriage!”

Jon froze in his tracks as the men cheered.

He had been heading to the godswood; he didn’t want to pray, only wanted to be alone. Sansa had reached for him as he had stormed out of the room, his name barely audible falling from her lips. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings, but not even she could have consoled him in that moment.

Jon stood some yards away from the men, but the wind and the mostly-empty courtyard made it easy for him to hear their words.

“Looks like I’ll be gettin’ to visit Lady Stark’s chambers this evenin’,” one of the men announced. Jon turned his head slightly to watch. The man was clumsily twirling a practice sword in his right hand; he had blond hair and his face was dirty, as if he hadn’t bathed in a few days. “You’re shit at fighting, Corren.”

“Not as shit as you are,” the man Jon assumed was Freed countered, dragging his practice sword behind him. He had a long, scraggly beard, and he was much older than Jon. “Besides, Lady Stark would rather face a White Walker than let you into her bed.”

“Come off it!” the other man said, his crooked teeth on display in a sickening grin. The surrounding men made noises of approval. Jon felt his right hand twitch towards his hip, but Longclaw was in his bedchamber. He glanced around for any sight of Ghost, but his wolf must have been hunting. “Lady Stark would be mighty lucky to have me warmin’ her furs. I’m a _real_ lover of ladies.” The men around him scoffed. “It’s true! Ask your wives.”

“Lady Stark was just as lucky to have the Bolton bastard, I’d say,” Freed said, and the men around him laughed. “Even he was probably better in the furs than you.”

Jon set his jaw.

“Forgot about that cunt,” the arrogant man growled. “She’s prob’ly all ruined thanks to him. Doesn’t matter. I’d still like to see what she’s hidin’ underneath all those skirts.” He made a crude gesture to some of the men behind him, registering cheers and laughter from his onlookers.

It was then that Jon saw red.

He was moving before he knew it, his blood boiling so furiously that the northern wind no longer had any effect on him. He strode over to where the men were standing, grabbed the collar of the blond-haired man, and yanked him to the ground. The air left the other man as he fell backwards into the snow, and before he could scramble to his feet, Jon was on top of him. The man reached for Jon’s face, clawing at him, begging him to get off, but Jon didn’t give an inch.

Jon released all his anger onto the blond-haired man’s face.

As he hit the other man, Jon thought of Lord Eddard Stark, of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon and Howland Reed. He thought of his siblings – his _cousins_ – and wondered if they would still love him once they found out. He thought of Ygritte, of Mance Rayder, of his brothers who betrayed him at the wall, of Ser Alliser Thorne and Olly and Janos Slynt. He thought of Joffrey Baratheon, of Ramsay Bolton, of Petyr Baelish, who still lurked the inside of his castle’s walls.

He thought of Sansa, sitting in her chamber near the fireplace, humming an old hymn as she sewed a new gown. He thought of sitting and cleaning his leathers, listening to the soft cadence of her voice, every now and then chancing a glance at her loosened auburn hair. She was so gentle, so kind, even after all that had been done to her.

Jon did not stop hitting the man until he was pulled away.

Strong hands grabbed Jon by the biceps and dragged him away, growling at him to stop. Jon struggled to his feet, his chest heaving with each breath. He had not been aware of the scene developing around him; the men had made a half-circle to watch, and each of them looked at Jon with what he could only describe as fear. The blond-haired man lay unmoving, the snow around him bright red. He spluttered once, blood sprouting from his mouth and dribbling down his chin, but at least he was alive.

Jon could already feel the guilt settling in his chest. He should never have attacked the man, no matter how angry he had been. He was a king, after all, and these were his subjects.

Jon shook Tormund off of him, and the big wildling stood to the side, watching Jon with his blue eyes. He was waiting for Jon to explain himself, to do something, but Jon could only stand there and catch his breath, staring dumbly at his gloved hands, slick with blood.

Finally, Jon looked to each man standing around him. He took a deep breath, and said, “The next man I hear speaking of Lady Stark will wish he had died in battle.”

He stalked away then, sweat dripping from his brow and heart hammering in his ears.

_CERSEI _

“I believe Tyrion,” Jaime snapped, their brother’s name sounding no less than poison in Cersei’s ears. Jaime was still looking at the letter Tyrion had sent, the sunlight dribbling through the windows, making him truly appear like a golden lion. “If he says this threat is real, then it’s real. He has no reason to lie to us.”

“He has every reason to lie to us. Although it doesn’t surprise me that you’d be stupid enough to listen to him, even after all he’s done,” Cersei said offhandedly as she took another sip of her wine.

“I’m not being _stupid_, I’m being _reasonable_,” Jaime countered, rounding the table and laying his good hand flat against the wood. “If these,” he waved his golden hand, “_White Walkers_ are real, they won’t stop at Winterfell.”

“The Dragon Queen has three of her monsters,” Cersei said calmly. She did not frighten as easily as her brothers. “The northern threat will be dealt with quickly. And then we will wait for them to march here with their remaining forces.”

“Alright, say they don’t win,” Jaime tried. “Then the dead come here.” Cersei said nothing; Jaime lifted his eyebrows. “Do we have dragons that I’m not aware of?”

“We do not need dragons,” Cersei snapped. “They will defeat the dead, and then we will take down the northerners-”

“Jon Snow is King in the North,” Jaime hissed. Cersei raised a thin eyebrow at him, challenging him. “He’d be a bloody fool to march his armies here. He doesn’t care about the throne.”

“He might,” Cersei said, the glass cool against her lips.

“He doesn’t,” Jaime insisted. “He’s never met this Dragon Queen, and it’s doubtful that she’ll be able to persuade him to come here and fight after he just won Winterfell back from the Bolton’s. We’ll have to face the Dragon Queen and her dragons either way, so why don’t you agree to help Tyrion? Perhaps we could come to an agreement-”

“Jon Snow will come to King’s Landing,” Cersei interrupted, her tone dripping with finality. Jaime’s eyes rounded at her, and she continued, “We’ll give him no other choice. He’ll want to retrieve what we’ve taken from him.”

Jaime sat heavily in a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was too accustomed to arguing with her to try and best her. “And what is that?”

“Nothing,” Cersei answered, “yet.”

_SANSA _

Sansa sat in her favorite chair near her fireplace. The fire nipped at her toes, hidden only by wool socks, and warmed her cheeks. The night had grown particularly cold, and she hadn’t been able to sleep at all, so she had seated herself next to the fireplace and continued to work on the gown she had been sewing.

Sansa’s fingers did not tremble when she sewed. She was a nimble sewer, learning quickly and at a very young age. Septa Mordane used to brag to her mother after every lesson, claiming that Sansa had the deftest hands that Winterfell had ever seen; Sansa would stand next to her mother and beam at the septa, her cheeks flushed at the compliment.

The process forced her to concentrate intently, to think only about what she was doing. It was exactly what she needed after the morning she had had.

She could not think about Jon without tears springing to her eyes. She had always shunned him as a brother, refused to acknowledge him as her immediate kin, and all along, she had been right. She would have done anything to go back in time, to treat him as a brother, to treat him as she had Robb and Bran and Rickon. She would call him “brother”, she would ask him to play with her, she would kiss him on the cheek after he returned home from a hunt, she would sit at the foot of his bed and listen to tell her stories.

Sansa felt the harsh burn of tears even then as she sewed, thinking of how she had always corrected Arya when her sister had called Jon “brother”. She had been so insolent, so desperate to impress her mother, that she hadn’t realized who Jon was, hadn’t realized that she was hurting the sad little boy her father had brought home.

And so, she had lost another brother, it seemed.

Sansa could not imagine what Jon was going through. It was hard enough for her to wrap her mind around, to truly come to terms with the fact that he was her _cousin_, not her brother or half-brother or bastard brother. Her father had lied to all of them all that time, just to protect his sister.

Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if Robb would have done the same for her.

_Jon would have. _

It was then that Sansa pricked her finger. She let out an annoyed breath and dropped her needle, bringing the finger to her mouth and sucking on the tiny wound.

As if on cue, the door burst open.

Sansa shifted in her seat, her index finger still caught between her lips, and saw Jon standing in her doorway, practically frozen. His cloak was covered in ice and snow, and his hair was dripping wet. His skin was scarily pale, yet his cheeks colored when he looked at her, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

Sansa yanked her finger out of her mouth and stood, setting her gown and needle on the floor and standing to face Jon. She was in her shift covered by her dressing robe, yet she somehow felt underdressed. Her hair had been long unbound, and it fell in waves over her shoulders.

“Jon,” Sansa breathed, and even as she said it, she could hear Sam’s words from earlier.

_Aegon Targaryen. _

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. He sounded unbearably broken; Sansa felt her heart sink. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t,” Sansa said quickly. Jon did not move. “Come in, you must be freezing.”

Jon stepped forward carefully and eased the door shut behind him. The firelight hit him as he moved, and Sansa could just make out cuts on his cheeks. She strode forward without thinking, her hands coming to either side of his face to finger the cuts.

“What happened?” she breathed, his face close. The cuts had scabbed over, but she could tell they were recent. She flinched at the temperature of his cheeks as her palms met them. She glanced down at the rest of him. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Jon shook his head, his eyes locked on hers.

“What happened?” Sansa repeated, letting her hands rest on his shoulders. It was then that she realized Jon was _actually_ freezing. His shoulders were rock-hard with ice, his leathers solid. “Jon! You’ve got to get out of your leathers before you freeze to death.”

“I won’t freeze to death,” Jon argued softly, but he didn’t resist as Sansa took his forearm and drug him towards the fireplace.

After Jon shed his cloak, Sansa worked deftly to untie his leathers, and her cheeks burned brightly as she realized she had never undressed a man before. She and Tyrion had never had the need to be undressed around one another, and Ramsay had always come to her with nothing on but a shirt and trousers, which he exposed of himself.

Once his jerkin was untied, Jon let it fall from his shoulders, and he yanked his gloves off his hands. He untied his shirt then and pulled it up above his head. Next was his undershirt, which was soaked through completely and stiff in places; Sansa let Jon remove that himself. He removed his leather pants, leaving him in only his trousers, and as he bent to untie his boots, Sansa made her way to her vanity, where her cloak lay. She snatched the cloak and found some wool socks for him, as well. When she turned back to him, she lost her breath.

Jon stood with his arms dangling at his sides, watching her. His lips were parted slightly, his Stark eyes round and dark. His hair hung to his jawline, curling around his bearded cheeks. He was without a shirt, and Sansa could not deny the rippling muscles in his chest and abdomen.

She could not recall ever seeing him without a shirt on.

His scars were far deeper than any she could ever imagine. There were five of them, thick, angry, red scars twisting into his chest and stomach, winding around his protruding muscles. Sansa could not tear her eyes from them, even as she felt Jon watching her.

She was hit with a rush of mixed emotions. She felt sorrow for the once-Lord Commander, who had only done the right thing, and was killed for it. She felt awe at the beauty of Jon, even as his skin was unsightly and marred. She felt anger, bloodlust for each man who had participated in putting a knife into Jon’s chest. And, strangely, she felt desire for the man standing before her.

They were several feet apart, but Sansa felt as if they had never been more intimate.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, turning from her slightly and looking to the fire. “I should’ve kept myself covered. You shouldn’t have to see-”

“I’ve seen my fair share of scars,” Sansa cut in, snapping herself out of her trance and moving towards him. She handed him the cloak, which he gratefully wrapped around himself, and the socks. He lowered himself into one of her chairs to pull them on his feet.

“Better already,” Jon sighed as he leaned back in the chair, his hands clutching either side of Sansa’s cloak. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“Of course,” Sansa said quietly as she, too, settled back into her chair. She peeked at him, at the scratches on his cheeks. “Do you want to tell me what happened, now?”

Jon closed his eyes and sighed. “Not much to say other than Sam is tending to his first injured man as we speak,” he admitted, peering into the fire once more. “He’s going to be fine, but…” Jon looked at her then, openly, unabashedly; Sansa returned the look. “No man will ever talk badly of you, not if I can help it.”

Sansa felt as if she might cry. “Oh, Jon,” she sighed, her bottom lip trembling. This was exactly why she didn’t want him to go to Dragonstone; she had no reason to fear anything whenever Jon was near. “You can’t… _attack_ everyone who says a word against me.”

“Yes, I can,” Jon countered, unblinking. He looked so beautiful in the firelight that Sansa almost forgot that even though he was no brother of hers, they were still related. “Besides, I doubt anyone will say anything now.” His lip curled in disgust. “Not after they all watched their king go mad.”

“Did you apologize?” Sansa questioned. In her mind’s eye, she could see Jon straddling Ramsay, his fists beating into the other man’s face so ferociously that Sansa thought his skull might break; she shuddered at the memory.

Jon made a face. “I told Davos I would do it tomorrow,” he said grumpily. “He says it should be public.”

“And… what about… are you going to tell them…” Sansa trailed off uneasily, eyeing him carefully.

The two of them had not spoken about his parentage. He had stormed out so quickly that morning that she hadn’t even been able to say his name before the door of her solar had slammed in her face. She had forced herself to not take his anger too personally.

Jon knew what she was speaking of. He clasped his hands and looked down, his demeanor changing immediately. “I don’t know,” he rasped, obviously uncomfortable.

“Don’t you think they should know?” Sansa asked innocently.

“Yes, they should. But just how am I to tell my people that their king is no Stark, but a Targaryen?” Jon snapped, his eyes narrowing. “The Targaryen’s tried to destroy House Stark. The only other living Targaryen is trying to take the North from us, trying to take all the Seven Kingdoms. Do you really think the northerners will still want me when they find out I’m not only a southerner, but a _Targaryen_?”

“You’re just as much Stark as you are Targaryen,” Sansa hissed, her blood already boiling at the turn in conversation.

“Don’t,” Jon said, and he laughed emptily. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Sansa asked, rising to her feet and looking down at him. “It’s the truth. You’re just as much Lyanna Stark’s child as you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s. And our father still raised you. He’s your true father, not Rhaegar.”

“He is _not_ my father!” Jon boomed, coming to his feet, as well. Sansa refused to back away from him. “He never was. He _lied_ to me, Sansa, to all of us. And for what?”

“He lied to _protect_ you,” Sansa said through gritted teeth. She reminded herself to keep her cool; the last thing she wanted to do was get into another screaming match with Jon. “Robert Baratheon would have killed you the second he found out who your father was.”

“Aye, and then I wouldn’t have been raised a bastard,” Jon said icily, and Sansa felt his words pierce all the way through her heart. “Then I wouldn’t have had to follow you and the others around, pretending to be one of you, wishing that your lady mother would pay the smallest bit of attention to me.”

“She thought her lord husband had been unfaithful,” Sansa said steadily. “How would you feel, if you were in the same place?”

“I would never be cruel to a child.”

“She was _not_ cruel to you!” Sansa shouted. “She did not treat you as one of her own, that much is true, but she did _not_ abuse you or neglect you. She raised you and Theon just the same.”

“How could you know?” Jon said, and he laughed once more. Sansa hated the sound of it. “You were always Lady Catelyn’s little princess. Sweet Lady Sansa never did anything wrong, did she? Nor did Lord Robb, Lord Eddard’s prized son. I was just the extra child, trailing after the two of you.”

“Jon, stop,” Sansa said, tears stinging her eyes. “You’re only saying that because you’re hurting.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jon said. “I suppose once I tell the northerners who I really am, you’ll finally get what you want.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the true heir of Winterfell,” Jon said. “You’ll take my post as soon as I’m kicked out of Winterfell, sent back to the South where I belong.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sansa said hotly, taking a step towards him as if to keep him in place herself. “The northerners will not want you gone.”

“They will,” he said, “and you’ll be queen at last.” Jon turned his palms upwards and shrugged. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

“At one time, perhaps,” Sansa snapped, “but I have supported you unwaveringly since you were named King in the North, and you know that. You know I am not the girl I was when we were growing up. You’re just being an ass so you don’t have to accept this.” Jon opened his mouth to argue, but she reached for his hand, squeezing hard so that he was forced to look at her. “It doesn’t matter who your parents are. You will _not_ be unnamed.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Jon said gruffly.

“No, I can’t,” Sansa agreed, “but I can promise that if the northerners wish to remove you from your throne, then they will be removing their Lady from her home.” Jon’s eyes softened at once, the fight slowly dying. “I will not stay here without you, Jon.”

“Sansa,” Jon protested softly, shaking his head. “Winterfell is yours. It’s your home. I could never ask you to leave-”

“It’s your home, too,” Sansa said. “It’s ours.” She searched his eyes for the Stark she knew was in him. “We will not let them have our home.”

Jon squeezed her hand in response, but said nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

_CERSEI_

Cersei drummed the fingers of her right hand against the tabletop impatiently as Jaime continued to splutter from the far side of the room. She had gathered her most trusted allies into her solar to discuss the plan to force the King in the North to bend the knee, and it came as no shock to her that her nitwit twin was disagreeing. The wine she held in her left hand had grown stale, and she had grown annoyed.

“I don’t see what’s got you all riled up,” Bronn drawled from across the table. He fiddled with a short dagger, passing the blade in between his fingers. Jaime looked on at him in disgust. “We do this, we get the North, _and_ I finally get that damn castle I been waitin’ for.” Bronn looked pointedly at Cersei, who fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Yes, you’ll all get your rewards,” she crooned, holding the edge of her wineglass to her lips, “after I’ve gotten what’s rightfully mine.”

“You can’t _own_ a person,” Jaime cut in, his eyes wide in his anger. Cersei was not sure when he had decided to turn honorable on her, but it was starting to frustrate her to no end.

“I can,” Cersei said calmly.

“You can’t.”

“I can and I will,” she snapped, her voice dripping with finality. Jaime did not even flinch. “I want her _back_. She took him away, my boy, my eldest boy-”

“Your eldest boy who was a monster and a shit king,” Jaime growled. Cersei’s eyes narrowed, and a fresh wave of anger unfurled in her chest; she would not give her brother the satisfaction of seeing her upset. “And I’ve told you a dozen times that it was Olenna. Why can’t you believe that?”

“Because Olenna is dead,” Cersei answered, as if it were the easiest response in the world. “And _she_ is still alive. Ned Stark’s bastard will put a crown on her head if we don’t stop him.”

“Let him,” Jaime said. He leaned forward on the table, peering at her seriously. “It won’t matter after the Army of the Dead destroys them and then comes to destroy us, or when they beat the Army of the Dead and then _they_ come to destroy _us_. None of this will matter anymore. Can’t you see that?”

“The Army of the Dead,” Littlefinger hissed from his chair. He was picking at the sleeve of his black cloak. Cersei had known he would be the easiest person to persuade, considering the reward she had offered him. Once her letter had reached him, he had lied and told his northern friends that he was coming to the South to spy on Cersei and her forces; they foolishly believed him. “You don’t really believe this nonsense, do you, Ser Jaime?”

“I do,” Jaime deadpanned. “My brother does, so I do, too.”

Cersei looked around the room. She had Bronn and his cut-throats, Littlefinger and his schemes, Qyburn and his spies, The Mountain and his strength, Euron and his fleet. She didn’t need Jaime; she could do this without him, as she had done everything else since Robb Stark had taken him prisoner.

“Then go.”

Jaime straightened, his demeanor faltering. “What?”

“Go,” Cersei repeated, putting more poison into her words. “Go and join our dear little brother and see the Army of the Dead for yourself. I don’t need your help, nor do I need your permission.” She tilted her head at him. “I am the queen.”

Jaime stood silently for several seconds, staring at Cersei. He was in no way the man she had first taken to bed, and in some strange way, he was the exact same man. She hated that she loved him, hated that she still wanted him, even as he stood there deciding to leave her, _again_.

It took Jaime no time to rid himself of his white Kingsguard cloak. He let it fall heavily to the floor, and without one word to her, he spun on his heels and began to exit. The Mountain took a step towards him, but Cersei stopped him.

“Leave him,” she commanded. Jaime paused. “He won’t be back if he leaves. The Army of the Dead will have him, if the Dragon Queen doesn’t get the chance first.”

Jaime cocked his head to the side, straightened his shoulders, and marched out of the room.

_JON _

Bran returned to Winterfell a week after the news of Jon’s parentage was revealed. A young girl named Meera Reed dragged him in on some sort of sled, and it was too easy for Jon to gather that they had not eaten in quite some time; the pale color of their skin was alarming. Bran was asleep when the pair arrived, or rather, that’s what Jon had thought; Meera awkwardly explained that Bran was having a vision, and that he needn’t be disturbed until he was finished.

Jon did not know what to say to that, so he took the ropes from Meera and dragged Bran inside the castle. Sansa was on his heels, fretting over the younger girl, asking her a thousand questions. Meera struggled to answer each one, and soon, Sansa disappeared to visit the kitchens.

With Meera’s help, Jon got Bran into his own chamber and settled near the fire. He sat him against the stone of the hearth and dragged the furs off his bed to cover his brother – _cousin_. Once Bran was wrapped up and secured, Meera looked desperately from the chairs around the fire to Bran’s side, and Jon could not help his soft smile.

“I’m sure he could use the extra warmth,” Jon commented as he nodded towards Bran’s side. Meera allowed herself a brief smile of relief and snuggled under the furs next to Bran, who was still somewhere far away.

Sansa returned within minutes with two steaming bowls of broth. She handed one to Meera, who accepted graciously, and set the other next to Bran for when he woke up. She then took a chair across from Bran; Jon sat at her feet, next to her legs.

As Meera ate, Jon studied Bran. He had grown so much since the last time Jon had seen him; his hair was wildly long and his eyebrows thick, and Jon thought he could see wisps of hair on his upper lip. He must’ve been seven and ten years or so, Jon thought, although it pained him that he could not remember.

Bran had always taken a liking to Jon. He was always quick to ask Jon and Robb to take him riding, or to take him to the training yard to watch the men fight. He was so small, so happy and full of life, that it hurt Jon to look at him then, a man grown, without any strength to hold himself up.

He had always wanted to be a knight, Jon remembered. He wanted to run a castle under Robb’s name, and he wanted to ride into battle by his brother’s side. He wanted to wear armor and have a sword as big as Ice.

Jon flexed his hands to distract himself.

“When will he wake?” Sansa asked quietly. Jon almost jumped; it had been quiet for so long, only the sound of the fireplace, that he had forgotten where he was, and who was with him.

Meera peered up at Sansa underneath long eyelashes. She was a pretty girl, with hair much like Jon’s and big brown eyes. As her skin began to warm, freckles could be seen along her nose and dotting her cheeks.

“I don’t know,” she admitted sheepishly. “The visions… they're inconsistent.”

“What is he seeing?”

“I don’t know that, either,” Meera said, her gaze falling to Bran. She looked at him with such tenderness that it made Jon’s heart ache; he did not know why. “Before this vision started, he said he needed to check on something.” She shrugged half-heartedly. “He never tells me much about what he sees.”

“You’re Howland Reed’s daughter, aren’t you?” Jon asked suddenly.

Meera nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Jon,” Jon corrected, his lips quirking upwards at the courtesy. “Your father… he was very close with… our father.”

Meera looked between Jon and Sansa, her eyebrows furrowing. “But Bran said-”

“Jon is just as much Ned Stark’s son as I am his daughter,” Sansa cut her off. Her tone dripped with finality; Meera’s lips snapped shut. “However, we do very much appreciate your father for his loyalty to ours.” Meera nodded once more, refusing to meet Sansa’s eyes. “You looked after Bran all this time?” Sansa asked then.

Meera didn’t look to Sansa, but to Bran, her eyes softening in the slightest. “Yes,” Meera answered. “Yes, my brother and I looked after him.”

“Where is your brother?”

Meera’s eyes slid away from Bran and found her soup bowl. “He died,” Meera said sadly. Beside him, Jon felt Sansa flinch. “We were attacked by the White Walkers. We had to run. Bran and I…” Meera looked up to Jon and said, “Your Uncle Benjen saved us.” Jon could not help the soaring of his heart. He felt like jumping up and cheering, thanking the gods for protecting his dear uncle. “Except he was different.”

Jon’s smile dropped.

“Different?” he questioned. “How?”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Meera said, her face crumpling. “He wasn’t dead but he… wasn’t alive, either.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sansa said.

“I know,” Meera countered quickly, “but that’s all I know to tell you.”

Sansa sighed above him, and Jon could tell she was getting irritated with the younger girl. It wasn’t anything that Meera had done; it was merely that she had no answers to any of their questions, and Bran had still not woken up.

“You should get some rest, Meera,” Sansa said as she stood. Jon had to scoot away from her before her leg brushed against his shoulder; he was not sure why he had avoided the contact. “Allow me to show you to your chambers.”

“M-my chambers?” Meera asked, looking from Jon to Sansa quizzically.

At that, Sansa could not help but smile. “Of course,” she said. “You are our guest, and by the looks of it,” she sighed as she studied Bran and Meera, “I believe my brother will want you here when he wakes.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Meera said honestly, scrambling to her feet. The warmth had finally returned to her skin, and her cheeks glowed pink. “And thank you for the broth.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Sansa said sweetly, her smile genuine. “If you decide you’re still hungry, I will have someone fetch you more.”

_She would be a good queen._

The thought was gone as quickly as it had appeared in his mind. Jon jolted as he realized what he had thought, his cheeks pinkening slightly. Of course, Sansa would be a good queen, but he was king, and for her to be queen, that would mean…

“Jon?”

“Yes?” he answered automatically, his head snapping up to where Sansa stood.

“I said I’m going to escort Meera to her chambers,” she said, allegedly again. “Do you mind getting Bran into your bed for the evening?”

“’Course,” Jon answered, climbing clumsily to his feet and wiping his sweaty palms against his trousers.

Sansa nodded once, looped her arm in Meera’s, and steered the younger girl out of Jon’s chamber. The door clattered shut behind them.

Once Sansa was gone, Jon let out an impossibly heavy sigh. He didn’t know what was happening to him. First, he felt insanely possessive of her; then, he couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful and gentle she was; now, he was thinking of her as his _queen_?

Involuntarily, Jon found himself imaging Sansa by his side at the high table, except she was wearing a silver crown, and so was he. They’re hands were overlapping atop the table, and Jon’s smile was as big as it ever had been-

He was going mad, he decided.

To busy himself, Jon took the bundle of furs that was Bran and heaved it into his arms. He carried his cousin to his own bed, laying him gently on the mattress and making sure his head was safely on the pillows. Still, Bran did not stir; it was beginning to worry Jon a bit, even though Meera had acted like it was a regular occurrence. However, his skin had become far less pale than it was before, which Jon knew was a good sign.

Jon dragged one of the chairs over to his bedside and sat heavily, leaning back and folding his hands across his stomach. He was still in his leathers, and the sky had already turned to black; he was fighting sleep. He had busied himself that day to avoid thinking about his true parentage. He had ridden into the forest and hunted, trained with several men, taken Ghost to the godswood to swim in the hot springs.

Jon must have drifted off to sleep, because when he pried his eyelids open, Sansa was on his bed, lying next to Bran. She was awake, and propped up on one of her elbows. She was wearing one of her dress robes – a blue one with dragonflies embroidered along the hems – and her hair had been unbound, falling down her shoulders like waves of auburn. She was humming softly, stroking Bran’s hair as he dreamed.

_She would be a good mother._

This time, Jon did not scold himself; it was no use. He could not stop the thoughts from occurring and, in fact, he quite liked them, not matter how wrong they sometimes made him feel.

Jon did not want to disturb her. In fact, he wanted to stay right where he was forever, watching her hum gently to Bran, running her fingers lightly through his unkempt hair. She studied her brother so tenderly, so intently, that it was all too easy for Jon to see how much she had missed him. She hadn’t seen Bran since leaving Winterfell, either, and Jon had no idea how much she must have yearned for her siblings while she’d been trapped in King’s Landing, all alone.

Sansa must’ve realized he was awake, because her blue eyes drifted from Bran’s face for a moment, only to catch Jon’s stare.

She said nothing, and she did not stop humming, but she did smile at him.

He needed to tell her.

He needed to tell her so many things.

He needed to tell her that she was mostly all he thought about, that he had started to dream about her, that when he pictured himself with a queen, it was her, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to frighten her or disgust her, even though he was almost entirely sure that she reciprocated _some_ of his feelings.

He also needed to tell her that he was going to meet with the Dragon Queen, and he was leaving in four days’ time.

Jon had met with Davos earlier that day and discussed the meeting. He was not going to tell the northern lords of his parentage until he returned; if he did so, he feared they might see it as a traitorous act, him leaving the North for his alleged family. Instead, he was going to meet with the Dragon Queen himself, and he was going to introduce himself as her nephew, Aegon Targaryen. If she wanted, Jon did not care to tell her the story, but he truly hoped she did not ask.

Davos and Jon had agreed that Tyrion Lannister would help them broker an alliance between the North and the Dragon Queen’s forces. Jon knew in his heart of hearts that he could not beat the Army of the Dead on his own; he needed more men, and he needed fire.

Daenerys Targaryen was his only hope, the North’s only hope.

He did not know what the Dragon Queen would ask for in return. This, perhaps, frightened him more than anything. Giving up the North was not an option, that much Jon knew. He would also refuse any marriage pact for Sansa, Arya, Bran, or himself. None of them would be forced to marry for political reasons, and he himself did not want to marry. Jon and Davos had agreed that in return for helping Jon beat the fight against the dead, he would give Daenerys men, horses, and supplies to march south and face the Lannister army.

He prayed to the gods, if they even bothered to listen to him anymore, that it would be enough.

“What are you thinking about?” Sansa whispered, catching him off-guard once more.

Jon lifted his eyes to meet hers and whispered back, “Nothing.” Sansa squinted at him; Jon sighed. “Not now. I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“Why not?"

“I’m tired.”

“I’m not.” Jon stared at her blankly, and she stared right back.

“In the morning?” Jon begged. Sansa raised one slender eyebrow. “Please?”

Jon truly did not want to fight with her then. It had been such a peaceful evening, and with the excitement of Bran coming home, he didn’t want anything to ruin her happiness. He knew telling her that he was leaving would hurt her, and he didn’t want to do it without preparing himself first.

He felt a bit better knowing that Littlefinger had ridden South. He had told Sansa that he was leaving to spy on Cersei, as he was their only input when it came to southern politics, and Sansa had let him go. It wasn’t until later that evening that Sansa told Jon that she did not believe him in the slightest.

“Let him go,” Sansa had said. “He can’t do anything in the South to hurt us. He’s running out of allies.”

“The queen is a pretty big ally, I’d say,” Jon had countered.

“Jon.” A hand had landed on his arm. “Don’t worry yourself. He left the Knights of the Vale here. That’s all we need of him.”

Jon had also apologized to Sansa that evening, for his behavior on the night of their argument concerning his parentage. He knew he had been so rude just because he was angry, but Sansa was not the source of his anger, and she didn’t deserve to be the receiver of it.

Jon looked to Sansa then, and it seemed that her fight was fading quickly. “Fine,” she whispered, “in the morning.”

Jon sighed gratefully and leaned back in his chair once more. He watched as Sansa brushed Bran’s hair away from his forehead and leaned forward to kiss him tenderly. Emotion was written all over her face, but she did not cry. She pulled back, gathered her skirts, and stood from Jon’s bed.

Sansa rounded the bed, and Jon was fully prepared to fall asleep right then and there; that is, until he felt her cool hand cup his cheek and turn his face towards her, allowing her to press a warm kiss to his cheek. Her lips were soft, _unbearably_ soft, and Jon’s eyes fell shut of their own accord, wishing he could savor every single second of the moment. When she retreated, she laid one hand on his shoulder, squeezed, and exited the room.

Jon exhaled loudly and pressed the heels of hands into his eyes.

_She’s going to kill me before the Night King even has a chance to. _

_SANSA_

Sansa watched as Bran lifted the bowl of his broth and downed another mouthful. She had cried when he had woken up, although she was not sure why. Her eyes still felt swollen, from her tears and sleep; Jon had woken her in the middle of the night to see Bran.

The sun had not yet risen.

Bran lowered the bowl back into his lap and leaned his head against the headboard of Jon’s bed. He did not look at anything in particular, and he did not say much, but Sansa still felt her heart swell at the sight of him. He had grown so much since she had last seen him, and she was sure that if he could stand, he would be taller than her and Jon both.

She hadn’t realized how badly she had missed her little brother until Sam had told her and Jon that he was just outside the gates of Winterfell. She had wanted to go after him immediately, but Sam had warned her that Bran was adamant about being left alone until it was time for him to return.

“Do you want to talk about your… um, vision?” Jon asked awkwardly, still in his seat by Bran’s side. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, facing them, her legs hanging over the side of the bed.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Bran answered in that dreadful, faraway voice that he had begun to use. He turned his head to Jon. “You need to hurry.”

Jon blanched. “What?”

“The Army of the Dead,” Bran said, “they’re coming.”

Jon set his jaw. “I know that.”

“They’re closer than you think.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw them,” Bran said simply. “You need allies.”

“I know,” Jon said through gritted teeth.

“You need to go to her.”

Sansa stared at Jon. He was looking at Bran, his eyes wide, as if he was trying to communicate to him without speaking.

“What?” she asked. “Bran, what are you talking about?”

“Jon is going to meet with the Dragon Queen,” Bran answered, tilting his head towards Sansa, “but he must go soon. Now. The Army of the Dead is closer than ever.”

“He is going to meet with her, yes, but we’ve not spoken about the details of his trip yet,” Sansa said, and again, her eyes were on Jon.

“He has,” Brans said. “He met with Davos yesterday.”

“_Bran_!” Jon exclaimed, rising from his chair, and at the same time, Sansa snapped, “_What_?”

Sansa had not been aware that Jon was meeting with Davos, nor did she know that he had decided to meet with the Dragon Queen. Yes, he had voiced the need to go, but she had figured they would have a more serious conversation about it, discussing the technicalities of the trip, who he would take, what he would say…

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Bran said, although he did not exactly sound all that sorry. “She needs to know. And you need to leave as soon as possible.”

Jon stood with his hands balled into fists, breathing heavily as he stared down at Bran. Sansa felt as if she’d been whacked upside the head. She and Jon rarely did anything without speaking to one another first, yet Jon had gone behind her back to decide on his leaving, without so much as consulting with her afterwards.

“My solar,” Sansa snapped, “_now_.”

Sansa stalked down the hallway to her solar, Jon’s footsteps echoing behind her. She could not understand why he didn’t feel the need to tell her.

Was he just going to up and leave? Was he not even going to explain himself?

As soon as the door closed, Sansa turned on him.

“What the _hell_ was that all about?”

Jon sighed and said, “Sansa, it’s not what you think-”

“You were just going to sail to Dragonstone without even talking to me? Without even discussing the terms of the alliance?” Sansa cut him off, cheeks blazing. “I thought we were in this _together_.”

“We _are_-”

“Obviously not!” Sansa snapped. She crossed the room and flung her cloak onto a nearby chair. She was positively seething, and the hearth blazing nearby was not helping. “You had a secret meeting with Ser Davos! You didn’t even bother to tell me you had decided to go!”

“You knew I was leaving!” Jon boomed, gathering himself quickly. He was never one to back down from a fight. “We talked about it just a few nights ago.”

Sansa blinked at him, her hands balled into fists at her sides. He was right – she had known he was leaving – but it still hurt that he hadn’t told her.

“You never said _when_,” Sansa said calmly. “You never told me-”

“I was going to tell you,” Jon said, moving closer to her. Sansa took an involuntary step backwards; Jon froze. “I was going to tell you this evening, but then Bran arrived. I had the meeting with Davos and had all the details worked out so that I could tell you altogether.” He shrugged his shoulders defeatedly, his eyes impossibly soft. “I would’ve never kept this from you. I was just scared to tell you.”

“Why?”

Jon closed his eyes and let out a breath. He looked uncomfortable, which made Sansa herself feel a bit unnerved. “I didn’t know how you would take it. I don’t want to leave, you know that.”

“I don’t want you to leave, either,” she heard herself say, although she wasn’t sure why she had.

She did not want to go throughout her day-to-day tasks knowing she would not see him later that evening. She did not want to break her fast alone. She did not want to miss catching his eye from across the courtyard and smiling bashfully before looking away. She did not want someone else waking her from a night terror.

She did not want to be without him.

“I have to.”

“Not so soon,” Sansa tried, eyeing his reaction.

“You heard Bran,” Jon said. “I have to go as soon as I can manage.”

“You could send an emissary,” Sansa offered, as she had a thousand times before.

“You know I can’t,” Jon said. “Sansa, we talked about this. I have to meet with the Dragon Queen myself and ask for her help-”

“And how do you suppose you’ll do that?” Sansa asked, irritation writhing in her chest.

Jon blinked at her. “I already told you I would not accept an offer of marriage.”

“What, then?” Sansa prodded, stepping closer to him. She could almost physically feel him slipping right through her fingers. “You said you’ve worked out all the details. What’re you going to offer? What about the North? What about your crown? What about…” She swallowed roughly. “What about us?”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked, furrowing his thick eyebrows.

“Don’t you get it?” Sansa snapped. “This… _queen_ is asking you to meet with her so that you’ll bend the knee.”

“I won’t-”

“That’s what she wants,” Sansa interrupted. She had never met this Dragon Queen, but she had heard many stories, and she knew that this woman wanted all of the Seven Kingdoms. “She wants the North. She’s asking you to meet with her so that you’ll bend the knee, side with her-”

“I’m not siding with her!” Jon shouted, taking a step closer. “I will not give up the North.”

“How should I know that?” Sansa asked. “You’re leaving us. You’re leaving, and Bran only just returned home, and Arya is still out there, _somewhere_. You’re the King in the North and you’re abandoning the North, your home. You’re abandoning your family.”

“I am doing this _for_ the North, Sansa,” Jon growled. “Without the Dragon Queen and her army and her dragons, we cannot defeat the dead. I’ve told you that.”

“And I understand that, but you shouldn’t have to leave,” Sansa countered. “The Dragon Queen should come here. This is your kingdom, and she has none. She is no true queen, not yet, and she’s demanding you go to her.” Sansa shook her head at him, in disbelief that he could not understand. “She’s taking you away from the North. You won’t have any allies in Dragonstone.”

“Davos is coming with me,” Jon said, as if that made it any better.

“Davos,” Sansa deadpanned.

“I’m not taking an army,” Jon said. “I don’t want to appear as a threat.” Sansa said nothing. “Tyrion will be there,” he tried. Sansa thought she detected a sense of loathing in Jon’s tone, but could not understand it. “You seem to think he’s an honorable man.”

“He is, but he is also the Dragon Queen’s hand,” Sansa said. “He’s on her side; he’ll want you to be, too.”

“Sansa, I won’t be,” Jon said. He took the last step in between them and snatched her hands from her sides. His palms were sweaty and warm, but Sansa didn’t mind. “Do you have any faith in me at all?”

Sansa looked into his eyes, so deeply that she could’ve fooled herself into thinking that they were her father’s eyes. She sighed. “You know I do.” Glancing down at their intertwined hands, she reminded him softly, “The men in our family do not do well in the South.”

“I know,” Jon said, “but this isn’t King’s Landing.” He squeezed her hands, causing her to meet his eyes once more. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

_ Home_.

Sansa’s eyes stung with unshed tears. She would not cry in front of him; she absolutely refused.

“What will I do while you’re gone?”

“Rule,” Jon said, as if it were the simplest answer in the world. “You’re better at it than I am.”

That forced a smile out of Sansa. “Not hardly,” she countered, poking him with their clasped hands.

“It’s true,” he insisted. “By the time I return, they’ll be calling you queen.”

Sansa blinked at him, unsure if he knew what he was implying. If she was honest with herself, she had imagined being a queen next to Jon, especially since his true parentage had been revealed. Furthermore, she could not deny the strange mix of feelings she had for Jon; she knew they were not the same feelings she had for her brothers.

“I’ll need to leave when the sun rises,” Jon said, snapping Sansa out of her reverie. “If Bran is right, I cannot afford to waste any time.” Sansa nodded once. “You will see me off, won’t you?”

Sansa straightened. “Of course,” she said.

Jon did not say anything for several seconds. He merely looked at her, so intensely that Sansa found herself wanting to shrink away from his gaze. There was something in his eyes, something dark and alluring, that she found herself pulled to.

“You should get some rest,” he whispered at last, and before he turned to go, he brought her hand to his mouth.

His lips met her skin, and Sansa knew her face was aflame. Her heart stuttered for only just a moment as she watched, mesmerized, as Jon’s eyes fluttered shut. As soon as it had started, it ended; Jon dropped her hand, spun away, and exited her chamber.

Sansa dragged herself to her bed and let herself fall on top of the furs.

What she felt for Jon was clearly not sibling affection, and she hated herself for it. He was _Jon_, her _cousin_ Jon, the sulking boy that she had grown up with, and at the same time, he was a grown man, a man who she knew would protect her at all costs, a man she longed to be near.

Sansa ran a slender hand through her hair and sighed; she would not get much rest that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your kind words and suggestions. It means so much to me!


	5. Chapter 5

_JON_

He stood in the falling snow, rubbing his gloved hands together to keep them warm as he waited for Davos and the horses. He was just outside the castle, shifting uncomfortably as the northern lords and ladies bustled around him, nodding at him and bidding him farewell.

That morning, Jon had announced that he was departing for Dragonstone to broker an alliance with the Dragon Queen. There had been several complaints about his leaving, but once he insisted that without the Dragon Queen, they would all perish, they seemed to come around… somewhat.

Sansa had not been there for his announcement; he feared she would not see him at all before he left.

Davos rode out of the stables on a brown mare, his sword at his hip and his travel bags dangling from either side of his saddle. He looked almost ridiculous in the large, furry cloak that Sansa had sewn for him; Jon was not used to seeing Davos in such winter wear. Jon himself was clothed in his leathers, direwolf pins clipped to his collar. He had several layers underneath his leathers, and the cloak Sansa had sewn for him while they were at Castle Black was wrapped around his broad shoulders. Longclaw hung from his hip, and Ghost stood at his side; he wished he could take the wolf with him.

“Your Grace,” Davos said, riding up to Jon and presenting him with his own mare. She was a chestnut beauty against the northern snow, with a white star on her nose. Jon took the reins from Davos and placed a gloved hand on the horse’s neck, rubbing gently. “A raven has been sent to the Dragon Queen. Men wait for us at the shore. They are to keep our horses until our return.”

“Thank you, Davos,” Jon said awkwardly.

Jon turned back to the castle once more, willing Sansa to appear. Facing his mare, Jon caught Tormund’s eye from across the courtyard. The wildling raised a large hand in farewell, and Jon smiled in return. The redheaded man then swiveled and used a practice sword to crash into Podrick with a blow so devastating that the squire was sent back several feet into the snow. Jon could see Brienne reprimanding Tormund, but the wildling only grinned at her.

Jon grabbed the saddle horn and prepared to lift himself onto the mare, but he heard Davos clear his throat and mutter, “Your Grace.” Jon looked to the older man, who nodded his head towards the castle.

Jon turned, and lost his breath.

Sansa was striding through the snow towards him, a bundle of cloth in her hands. Snowflakes fell all around her and landed in her auburn hair, which was partly braided up and partly cascading down her shoulders. She was buried in a cloak, and her boots sunk into the snow as she walked. Her eyes, so blue, pierced him straight through the chest; it was the sweetest pain.

“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?” Sansa asked breathlessly as she made it to him at last, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Not goodbye,” Jon corrected her. “I’ll return sooner than you know.”

For a wild moment, he imagined swooping forward and kissing her cheeks, the bite of her cold skin mingled with the warmth of his lips; he shuddered.

“I brought you something,” Sansa said, lifting the bundle in her hands. “I… wanted to present it to you a bit more formally, but…” She shrugged her shoulders. “You shouldn’t go to Dragonstone without this.”

Sansa removed the cloth, and underneath was an iron crown.

The crown was shiny, beautiful and rugged, unlike any crown Jon had ever seen. It was ordained with no rubies, no diamonds, nothing, only two engraved direwolves on either side of the band. For a moment, Jon could do nothing but stare at it.

“I had it forged for you,” Sansa said softly, gazing down at the crown. “The blacksmith only just completed it last evening. I went to retrieve it this morning,” she admitted, “which is why I am late seeing you off.”

“Sansa…” Jon said, unable to look away from the crown. He did not feel worthy enough to wear it, even though he was a king, had been named so by his own people. He never truly felt like a king, never truly felt as if he knew what he was doing. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sansa said quietly, and she tucked the cloth into her cloak so that she could sit the crown upon his head. It fit almost perfectly and, surprisingly, Jon did not feel uncomfortable wearing it; he felt regal, and strong. He locked his eyes on hers as she leaned in close to him. “There,” Sansa said to herself as she pulled her hands away, her fingers brushing against his curls. She blinked at the crown, her sparkling eyes almost watery. “You are a king, after all. You must look the part.”

“Thank you,” Jon choked out. His throat had gone tight on him, and he could hardly stand to look at her any longer.

Sansa did not answer; instead, she pulled him into a hug, almost as tight as the one they’d shared upon her arrival at Castle Black. Jon held onto her, his hands on the small of her back, and she wound her arms around his neck, burying her face into his shoulder. He never wanted to let her go and, he thought, she might just let him hold onto her forever.

Jon breathed in her scent, the lavender smell of her hair and the pine smell of the North. He tucked his nose into her neck, their skin touching and lighting on fire.

“Be safe, Jon,” Sansa whispered into his ear. “Come back to me.”

And then, she released him and turned away, making her way through the snow and back to the castle. Jon watched, heart pounding, as she brought a gloved hand up to her cheek, curiously appearing to wipe away a tear.

Jon turned to Ghost, burying his gloved hand in the direwolf’s fur. “Look after her for me, boy,” he told the direwolf. Ghost blinked his red eyes at Jon, seeming to understand his words. “Protect her.” Ghost licked his cheek; Jon felt as if he knew.

And with that, Jon lifted himself onto his mare, nodded once to Davos, and rode towards Winterfell’s gates, leaving his world behind him.

_DAENERYS_

“It appears that we’ll be hosting the King in the North, after all,” Tyrion told Dany as he handed her the letter.

_Queen Daenerys_

_I am departing from Winterfell for Dragonstone today. I look forward to discussing an alliance between our forces. _

_King in the North _

Dany could not help but scowl at the word _king_. There was already one monarch on the throne; she did not want to have to face another monarch in the North. However, Tyrion had promised that he would bend the knee to her. She had been fairly confident in that, until she had learned of the King in the North’s true parentage.

Dany could not afford to play games with the true heir of the Seven Kingdoms.

“A man of few words,” Tyrion commented as Dany sat the letter on the table in front of her. “Not much has changed, I’m afraid.”

“I want the North,” Dany said, ignoring her hand’s comments.

“The North shall be yours, Your Grace,” Lord Varys said from across the table. “Although it is the kingdom I would be least bothered with. Seems a bit too drab for my taste.”

“I don’t care about the climate,” Dany snapped, cutting her eyes towards the bald eunuch. “It is one of the Seven Kingdoms, and all Seven Kingdoms are _mine_.”

“I do hope that this is not the approach you plan on taking with Jon Snow,” Tyrion said, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, casting eerie shadows on his scarred face. “He may need our help, but we need his, as well.”

“I do not need his help,” Dany said. “I have three full grown dragons and the largest army in the world.”

“And no allies,” Tyrion said.

“I have the Tyrell’s, the Martell’s, and the Greyjoy’s,” Dany argued.

“The Tyrell’s who have been mostly wiped out by my family, the Martell’s who are driven only by hatred of my family, and the Greyjoy’s who are split in their loyalties between you and my family,” Tyrion said. Dany grimaced. “You need stronger allies, Your Grace. And besides, the fight against the dead is not Jon Snow’s battle alone. It is ours, as well.”

“How so?”

“If the Army of the Dead defeats Jon Snow and his northerners, you do not think they will simply quit there, do you?” Tyrion asked. Dany said nothing. “No, they will not. They will march South and destroy my sister and her armies. And we will be stuck here avoiding them, saved only by the seas.” Tyrion tilted his head. “Is that what you want, Your Grace?”

Dany did not answer him. She gathered herself and exited the room, her blood boiling.

_SANSA_

Within days of Jon’s absence, two people arrived in Winterfell: her little sister, and Jaime Lannister.

Jaime came first, on the back of a dark mare and shrouded in a damp cloak. Sansa had her guards capture him immediately, and after he was appropriately clothed and fed, he was taken to the Great Hall to be questioned. Sansa sat at the high table in Jon’s place, with Bran on her right and Brienne on her left.

It had taken much discussion, but eventually, it had been Bran to convince Sansa to let Jaime stay.

“We need him,” Bran had said.

“But what about all he’s done to our family? To our father? To you?” Sansa had countered.

Bran had looked at Jaime then, straight in the eyes, and said, “He’s a man of honor now.”

Sansa had no choice but to let him stay, especially when Brienne told Sansa of how Jaime had saved her life, and how he had armed and armored her so that she could protect Sansa.

Arya returned home three days later.

Sansa had stumbled upon her in the entrance of the gates, arguing with the guards about her identity.

“_Arya_?” Sansa had questioned, snapping the guards’ mouths shut.

Sansa had almost not recognized her little sister. She had not grown much since they were children, but her features were much older, and her hair was tied back just like their father’s used to be. She wore leather clothing like a man, but the thin sword at her side was the same one she had caught her with all those years ago in King’s Landing.

Sansa cried when Arya had rushed into her open arms. They had never gotten along, but they would always be sisters, and they needed each other, then more than ever. Sansa was so grateful that Arya had finally returned home, that all of them were finally where they were supposed to be.

That is, until Arya asked, “Where’s Jon?”

A lump grew in Sansa’s throat at the mere name. She admitted to Arya that Jon was not in Winterfell, that he was traveling to Dragonstone to make an alliance with the Dragon Queen. Sansa then briefed her about the situation with the Army of the Dead; surprisingly, Arya seemed unfazed. More than anything, she was disappointed that Jon was not home; Sansa knew she would be.

Later that evening, after Arya had been reunited with Bran, the sisters sat by Sansa’s fireplace, drinking ale and reminiscing on their foolish, childish behavior when they had been young girls. Sometime throughout the evening, however, their conversation had grown dark.

Eventually, Arya had told Sansa of all that had perspired since the day of their father’s beheading. Arya did not cry, not even when she spoke of being blind in Bravos, or of the horrors that she was exposed to while she was training. She sat, stone-faced, staring at the fire as she recounted all of her story. Sansa had felt like retching whenever her sister was finished.

Sansa did not tell all of what had happened to her since the day of their father’s beheading. She glossed over the worst details: the beatings, the run from King’s Landing, her marriage to Ramsay. She told Arya just enough so that she could understand what had gone unsaid and, judging by the look on Arya’s face, Sansa assumed she knew.

“I would’ve killed him,” Arya said, her eyes still on the fire. Not for the first time since her arrival, Sansa found herself afraid of what Arya could accomplish.

“I know,” Sansa replied. “I wanted to.”

“You did,” Arya said. “In the end, you got him.”

“I know,” Sansa repeated, looking down at her hands. “Didn’t bring much relief, I'm afraid.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Arya agreed. After several minutes of stony silence, she whispered, “I never would have survived what you survived.”

Sansa reached across her and took her sister’s hand in hers. Arya did not squeeze back, but she did not yank her hand away.

“You would have,” Sansa said seriously. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

Arya’s lips quirked upwards in a small smile. “I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Sansa smiled, too, and quipped, “Well. Don’t get used to it.”

Everything had gone swimmingly between Sansa and Arya, until the second evening of her return.

“When is Jon coming home?” Arya asked as she toyed with a dagger. She was laying on her back in front of the fireplace, her legs bent and her head on the floor. The firelight danced on her sister’s dark features.

Sansa sat in front of her in a chair, diligently sewing a new dress. She wanted to wear something that Jon had never seen when he returned home, although she was not sure why. However, it kept her mind busy and her thoughts from anything can could go wrong while Jon was away.

“I don’t know,” Sansa answered as she worked with her needle.

“Does it upset you?”

Sansa stopped sewing and peered at her sister. Arya continued to flick the dagger from hand to hand; if she dropped it, it would land on her face. She was clothed in a man’s shirt and leather pants, her socked feet pointed towards the fire.

“What?”

“That Jon left,” Arya said, not bothering to look at Sansa. “Does that upset you?”

“Why would it upset me?” Sansa asked defensively, crossing her legs.

“I dunno, you tell me,” Arya said nonchalantly. “I was only wondering. I can’t imagine how horrible it was for you two to be the only Starks in Winterfell.”

At that, Sansa bristled. Arya still did not know of Jon’s true parentage, and Sansa refused to tell her, knowing that Jon would want to tell her himself. She wanted to snap at Arya, correct her as she had done so many times as a child, but she merely cleared her throat.

“Why would that be horrible?”

“I dunno, because you _hated_ him when we were kids?” Arya said sarcastically.

“I did not hate him,” Sansa argued softly.

“Might as well have,” Arya countered. She began to toss the dagger up in the air with one hand and catch it with the same hand; Sansa cringed every time she caught it. “You never liked him.”

“I only wanted to please Mother,” Sansa said. “Besides, things have changed since then.”

“Obviously,” Arya snorted. Sansa sat her needle in her lap and looked directly at her sister. Arya glanced at her and caught the dagger without looking. “What?” Sansa raised a slender eyebrow. “I just assumed you’d be happy that he was gone.”

“Well I’m not,” Sansa said simply.

“I don’t like it,” Arya admitted, turning back to her dagger.

“What?”

“That he’s gone,” Arya explained. “I mean, you said Bran only returned a few days before he left, and I still wasn’t here.” She shrugged halfheartedly. “Seems like he didn’t care that much about us or he would have stayed.”

“He cares about us,” Sansa said quickly. “He didn’t want to leave.”

Arya snorted again. “Right,” she said, “like he didn’t want to go meet the beautiful Dragon Queen and her monsters.” Arya shook her head. “He ditched Winterfell for a woman he doesn’t even know.”

“That’s not why he went,” Sansa retorted, her cheeks pinkening at the mention of Jon and the Dragon Queen. She hated imagining them together, meeting for the first time. It awoken a seething, jealous part of her that she was not fond of. “He went _for_ the North. He needs her army and her dragons to defeat the Army of the Dead.”

“Why’re you defending him?” Arya asked. She sat up suddenly, the dagger dangling from her fingertips. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “_You_, of all people, defending _Jon_.”

“He is our king,” Sansa bit out, her fingers closing tightly around the material in her lap.

“But you’ve never liked him,” Arya pressed, “and now you’re saying he left Winterfell, _abandoned_ us, for good reason.”

“He did,” Sansa hissed. Arya opened her mouth to argue, but Sansa cut in, “I don’t want to talk about Jon anymore, Arya.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m tired,” Sansa lied, “and I don’t want to argue with you.”

“I knew it,” Arya said softly. She had an odd little smile on her face, a smile that made Sansa shift in her seat uncomfortably. “Nothing has changed. You’re deflecting.”

“I’m what?”

Arya leaned in closer to Sansa. “You don’t want to talk about Jon because you’re lying,” she said. “You still don’t like him. It’s killing you to sit there and defend him. I can’t imagine the look on your face whenever they crowned him king.”

“Arya-”

“He’s our _brother_, Sansa,” Arya snapped. The smile was gone, and in its place, a look of disdain. “Whether you like it or not, he is.”

Sansa could not help it. The words bubbled up in her throat and spurt out like vomit.

“He’s not.”

Arya stood at that, the dagger now clenched tightly in her left hand. Sansa shrunk back in her chair, even though she could easily stand and be several feet taller than her little sister.

“You still can’t accept that,” Arya said, her voice eerily calm even though her big brown eyes were narrowed dangerously. “He is our father’s son. He is our brother.”

“He’s not our brother!” Sansa exclaimed, rising to her feet. Her new dress and sewing equipment tumbled to the floor; neither sister flinched. Sansa knew she was making a mistake, knew how much it would upset Jon, but she could not stop. She towered over Arya, feeling all too powerful and not powerful enough. “He’s not. He’s not our father’s son.” Arya took a step back, as if Sansa’s words physically hurt her. She blinked once, twice, opened her mouth to say something, but found no words. “He’s the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and our aunt, Lyanna Stark. His real name is Aegon Targaryen. He’s the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and the Dragon Queen is his aunt.”

Arya said nothing.

She tucked the dagger into her belt and stormed out of the room, the door clanging shut behind her.

Sansa dropped into her chair, put her face in her hands, and cried.

The next morning, Arya came to Sansa’s chamber. Sansa had been dressing for the day, brushing her hair out until it shined a beautiful auburn, when her sister had opened the door slowly, almost shyly.

Sansa stood and turned to face her. Arya’s body was halfway in her chamber, halfway in the corridor. She looked so much like the eleven-year-old girl that Sansa had known her as, the same little girl who used to chase Jon and Robb around in the courtyard with a training sword, with her hair in tangles.

“Arya-”

And then her little sister was in her arms with her face buried in her chest. Sansa wrapped her long arms around Arya, resting her cheek atop her sister’s head. She breathed a sigh of relief that she did not realize she had been holding.

“I talked to Bran,” Arya admitted, her words muffled by Sansa’s dress. Her arms were wrapped tightly around Sansa’s middle. “He told me everything.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I shouldn’t have provoked you, I didn’t know-”

“Shh,” Sansa soothed, bringing one of her hands up to hold the back of Arya’s head. She stroked her hair, like their mother might have, and waited a few moments. At last, she pulled away, holding Arya’s face and peering at her closely. Her big, brown eyes were welled up with tears, and her bottom lip was trembling. “Are you alright?”

“He’s still our brother,” Arya said weakly, as if to reassure herself.

“He is,” Sansa agreed softly, although she certainly did not feel that way.

“He’s not going to leave us for… for _her_, is he?” Arya asked.

The tone of Arya’s voice broke Sansa’s heart. For such a strong, powerful warrior, the girl in front of her sounded like a scared child. She was instantly reminded of nights in King’s Landing, when Arya would tiptoe slowly to her bed and ask her if Bran was going to live.

Sansa had always known that Jon was Arya’s favorite, and vice versa. She never saw one without the other and, despite the age difference, the two got along better than the rest of the siblings. It was no wonder that Arya hated the idea of Jon abandoning his Stark heritage.

“No,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “He told me that it’s all for the North. For us.”

Arya nodded her head once, hastily wiped at her nose with the back of her hand, and stepped out of Sansa’s grasp. Sansa let her hands fall limply to her sides.

“You really were defending him, last night,” Arya thought aloud, blinking up at Sansa. Sansa did not answer, only returned her curious gaze. “Why? What changed?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa sighed, dropping back into the chair in front of her vanity. “It’s complicated.”

“You can talk to me,” Arya offered, sitting on top of a chest next to the vanity. Sansa almost laughed, but Arya’s face was so serious that she could find no humor in her words.

Sansa shook her head helplessly. “When I made it to Castle Black, I thought what I felt was only relief at being reunited with a sibling. I thought that I would’ve felt that way seeing any of you,” Sansa admitted, “but it changed. The longer I was around him, the more I knew that it was _him_, not just another sibling. And I couldn’t understand why I felt so… so _different_ around him. I ignored it, hoping that it would go away once we returned home. Then, we won back Winterfell, and I knew it was no sisterly love I felt for Jon. It was something… something more, unlike anything I ever felt for my other brothers. And now, we’re not even siblings anymore, and…” Sansa could feel the tears beginning to build behind her eyes. She leaned forward, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. “I don’t know.”

Neither girl said anything for a long time. They sat in eerie silence, the only sound the uneven popping of the fire. Sansa felt so silly for admitting all of her feelings to Arya, but at least some of the obnoxious weight had been lifted off her chest after saying it out loud at last.

“Sansa,” Arya said softly, prodding Sansa to open her eyes and look at her sister. “Do you have… _feelings_ for Jon?” Sansa looked away, chewing on her lip; her lack of answer was answer enough for Arya. “Does he return these feelings?”

Sansa laughed emptily. “That’s the worst part,” she whispered. “Sometimes I think he does. Other times…” She shrugged.

“Isn’t it… strange?” Arya asked. She looked so helplessly confused. “I mean… it’s Jon.”

“Yes, it’s strange,” Sansa said. “But… when Jon and I reunited at Castle Black, it was like we had never met before. We were strangers. And besides,” Sansa shrugged, “Jon was never a true brother to me, and I was never a true sister to him.”

“Still…” Arya seemed to take several moments to make up her mind.

A sudden urge to change the conversation peaked in Sansa’s mind. She nudged her sister with her knee. “I suppose you didn’t have much time to think about men during all your training, hm?”

Arya blushed wildly, and Sansa raised her eyebrows in shock. “You’d be surprised,” she muttered, scuffing at the floor with one of her boots.

“Arya Stark,” Sansa said, straightening and eyeballing her little sister. Sansa had not been entirely sure that Arya even cared about things as trivial as men, but her sister only continued to surprise her. “You must tell me about this man.”

Arya rolled her eyes and crossed her arms across her chest defensively. She refused to look at Sansa, but she admitted, “I’ve not seen him in years. I met him when I left King’s Landing, with the Night’s Watch recruits. He was…” She shrugged, struggling with the right words. “Sort of stupid. But I liked being around him. He worked with the blacksmith in King’s Landing, and he wore a helmet shaped like a bull’s head.”

“A fighter, then?”

Arya scoffed. “Not hardly. I could’ve taken him down with my eyes closed.”

“You could take anyone down with your eyes closed, I assume.”

“You’re probably right.”

Sansa could not fight the smile that she wore. “And where is this man now?”

Arya shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s the worst part, I think. I don’t even know if he’s alive.” Her shy demeanor changed suddenly, and her eyes darkened. “He was taken away by a witch, the last time I saw him. I don’t know what she did with him.”

Sansa’s smile fell. “Well,” she said awkwardly, “I do hope this man of yours turns up someday. I quite like seeing you all…” She nudged at Arya once more. “Flustered.”

“_Alright_,” Arya groaned, “enough of that. I’ve got something important to share with you.”

“What?” Sansa asked, her lips quirking slightly at Arya’s quick turn of conversation.

“Bran and I talked a little more about his… visions,” she said, making a face at the last word, “and how much he can see. I noticed the Knights of the Vale banners when I arrived, so I asked him about them.”

“They are under the command of Lord Baelish,” Sansa said automatically. “He is serving in Lord Robyn’s place.”

“Yes, they are under Littlefinger’s command,” Arya agreed, “but they don’t want to be.” Sansa tilted her head and squinted at her sister. “Bran and I talked about the Vale’s allegiance to Littlefinger,” she explained, “and the crimes he has committed himself.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: attempted sexual assault and mentions of Ramsay
> 
> Also, as mentioned before, traveling takes little time in this world, only to keep the story flowing smoothly. If that bothers you, I apologize, but I would hate to spend countless chapters having characters sit in a boat or ride a horse across the country. 
> 
> Thanks again for all the encouraging comments and suggestions!

_DAENERYS _

The King in the North was much shorter than Dany imagined. His curly black locks were pulled back in a knot and his beard was well-tamed. He was expensively dressed with a large sword swinging from his hip. He wore the sigil of House Stark, the direwolf, on his leathers, and his crown winked in the sunlight as he journeyed up the stairs to her castle.

Dany grimaced.

She made her way into her thrown room, smoothing her skirts and sitting upon her throne of dragon glass. No one spoke as they waited for the man and his advisor to come through the large doors.

In moments, Greyworm and Tyrion had them bustled inside, and Missandei, who stood to her right, began.

“You are now in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar of the First Men, Queen of Mereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, protector of the realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons.”

Jon Snow looked unimpressed; he stood with his arms dangling at his sides, glancing around the room as Missandei spoke.

Dany stood, wishing she had a crown of her own to outmatch Jon’s.

“You have the honor of welcoming the White Wolf of Winterfell, the King in the North,” Jon’s advisor said with a thick accent. He was an older man, with a grey and white beard and knowing grey eyes. “He prefers Jon Snow.”

“Welcome to Dragonstone,” she called down from her throne, her hands clasped. “I assume you had a safe journey?”

“We did,” the advisor said. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Let’s not waste time with small talk,” Jon Snow said, his voice booming and unmistakably northern. Dany could find no family resemblance within him; he was all dark and grey and Stark. “We have important matters to discuss.” As an afterthought, he added, almost bitingly, “Your Grace.”

“Of course,” Dany said, descending her throne and making her way to where Jon stood. Missandei followed behind her dutifully. Jon did not blink as she walked towards him, nor did he gape at her or shrink away. There was no trace of affection on his stony face, nor was there any hint of intimidation; this was not the response she was used to receiving from men. “Shall we meet in the council room?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jon cut in just as Tyrion had opened his mouth. “I suppose you’ve heard by now,” Jon started, “that I am the trueborn son of your brother, Rhaegar, and Lyanna Stark.” Dany blanched; she had not been expecting this whatsoever. “That makes us family.”

“Where did you hear this rumor?” Dany tried. If he knew the truth of his parentage, then he knew the Seven Kingdoms were his by right, and that meant he had no reason to fear her.

_Or every reason_.

Jon shook his head, a scowl on his face. “You know it’s true,” he argued. “We’re family by blood, and families help each other. You need me as much as I need you.”

Tyrion looked up at her with big eyes, as if to say, _I told you so_.

“That may be, but wearing that crown and calling yourself king means that you are in open rebellion against me,” Dany all but growled. Her fingernails dug into the backs of her hands she was holding them so tight. “Why should I help a _usurper_?”

“I will not give up the North, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Jon said solidly, straightening his back so that he was a few inches taller than Dany. “My family and I have fought too hard to win it back. It’s ours, and we’ll never bend to anyone else, ever again.”

Dany bristled, anger flowing through her veins like blood. “You have come into _my_ ancestral home only to demand that _I_ need _you_ and to announce that you will not be giving up the North,” she narrowed her eyes daringly, “one of _my_ Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon did not address that; perhaps he didn’t know the Seven Kingdoms were his by right.

He glanced at his advisor, and Dany thought she could see the hint of a smile on his stoic features. She tilted her head. “Aye, I have,” he agreed. “But none of that matters now. There is only one war that matters, and that is the Great War.” Jon swallowed roughly. “And it is here.”

_SANSA_

It was always hardest to kneel at her mother’s statue. Her grandfather’s, uncle’s, aunt’s, brothers’, and father’s were difficult, as well, but nothing hurt quite as much as seeing Lady Catelyn Stark’s face etched in stone.

She had once been so beautiful, so full of life and grace. Sansa’s fondest memories were of sitting in her mother’s lap, having her hair braided, while her mother’s sweet voice would fill the room. Her mother often sang to her, and Sansa had thought there was no sound in the world lovelier than her mother’s voice.

Sansa kept the tears at bay, but she could feel them stinging her eyelids as she looked up at her mother’s statue. It looked nothing like her; it had no shining red hair, no deep blue eyes, no curved lips, no sharp cheekbones. It had no life, and that was one thing that her mother had more than anyone.

After Sansa was sure she had paid her respects, she gathered her skirts and stood, hastily wiping away a stray, hot tear. It was cold in the crypts, cooler than it was above ground, where it was still snowing heavily. This winter was already proving to be a destructive force, and every time Sansa went outside, she found herself worrying about the North’s food and supplies.

She could only hope that Jon kept that in mind while he met with the Dragon Queen.

Sansa emerged from the crypts to be met with complete darkness. The sun had been setting when she had begun her journey downwards, but she hadn’t realized she’d spent so much time with the statues. She pulled her cloak a little tighter around herself as the northern winds bit at her cheeks.

Before Sansa made it out of the corridor leading down to the crypts, she felt a cool hand wrap around her mouth from behind. It was calloused and smelled horribly. Panicked, she bit the hand, causing the owner to curse and yank away. Sansa spun on her heels and swung at the intruder.

Her right hand met the man’s cheek with a _CRACK!_ that echoed throughout the crypt. Before she could pull her arm back, the man latched onto her wrist. He found the other one easily, even though Sansa was pulling away from him with all her might.

The man had dark blond hair, and his face was swollen, as if he had been in a fight. His right eye had been recently blackened and was just beginning to heal. His cheeks were streaked with ice and dirt, and his teeth were crooked as he grinned at Sansa.

“Where’s yer king now?” the man drawled, stepping closer to her.

“Let me go,” Sansa commanded, attempting to steel her voice as much as possible.

_I am not afraid. I am a wolf of Winterfell. I am not afraid. I am a wolf of Winterfell_.

“Not around, is he?” the man went on. He had both of her wrists in one large hand then, pinning them above her head and pressing them into the stone of the corridor’s wall. The stone scratched at the skin on her hands, and Sansa knew she would be bleeding within seconds. “What about yer lady knight? Off to bed, is she?”

“The king will have your head for this,” Sansa spat, although a tremble had begun deep within her bones.

She knew the look on the man’s face. She had seen that look far too many times, from strangers and husbands alike. Her throat began to close in on itself, and Sansa could feel her legs beginning to weaken, threatening to let her fall.

“The king won’t know about this,” the man warned, bringing his free hand up to grab onto Sansa’s jaw, forcing her to look at him. His grip was uncomfortably tight, and she feared he would leave bruises behind. “He hit me for talkin’ ‘bout you, y’know,” the man added, his dark eyes disturbing. “He’s not ‘round to keep you safe no more.”

Realization donned on Sansa. She recalled a night in which Jon had come to her, his cheeks cut and his eyes faraway. He had attacked a man that day for speaking ill of her, and here that same man was, moving his body far too close to hers.

“Don’t fight,” the man growled as his fingers began to clumsily pull at the laces of her bodice. “It’ll only make it worse if you do.”

Those words, those horrible words Sansa had heard so many times before, drug her away from the crypt and into the past. She was in her old bedchamber, and another man was hovering above her, glaring down at her with hateful, icy eyes. She was struggling, trying to fight him off, trying to get away, but it only prompted him to call his guards in to hold her down–

“Step away,” another voice commanded.

Sansa watched as the man’s eyes went from lust-filled to horror-filled. His grip on her wrists slackened, and she slunk to the floor, her knees too weak to hold her up any longer. She had begun to shake like a leaf in the wind, and Ramsay’s voice still echoed in her head.

_Don’t fight me, sweetling, it’ll only make it worse. I’d hate to have to invite my guards into our bedchamber_.

Sansa rubbed at her wrists; they were unharmed but the ghostly touch of bindings still stung.

“You have three choices,” Arya said from behind the man. Sansa could now see her Needle poking into the back of the man’s neck. “I can kill you now, the king can kill you when he returns, or you can leave Winterfell. For good.”

The man spun around, digging in his cloak for a weapon, but Arya was much, much quicker. Within seconds, she had his forearm in her grip, dragging him down to her height, and the tip of her Needle was digging into the flesh underneath his chin. A thin stream of blood trickled down his neck.

“Choose wisely,” Arya warned, her eyes narrowed.

The man slid his eyes to where Sansa sat, huddled in on herself and quivering like a child. He looked back to Arya, who raised a slender eyebrow, as if to challenge him.

The man backed away and ran out of the crypt.

As soon as Arya was sure he was gone, she sheathed her sword and rushed to Sansa’s side. She pulled Sansa, who was still trying to shove memories of the past out of her head, up by her elbow and wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Come now,” she said gently, the sound of her voice helping Sansa to ground herself. Sansa was sure she had never heard the tone Arya was using, but it sounded strangely like their mother. “I’ve got you, sister.”

Arya helped Sansa all the way back to her chamber. She removed Sansa’s cloak, led her to the bed, helped her under the furs, and crawled in after her. As soon as Arya’s arms wrapped around her, Sansa began to cry in earnest; Arya said nothing, only held Sansa’s head to her shoulder and stroked her hair.

That night, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, as if they were little girls once again.

_JON_

The Dragon Queen was not as intimidating as she was made out to be. Jon had been expecting to meet a woman of towering stature, perhaps with a sword at her hip, but she was no more than an average woman. She did not even wear a crown.

Jon watched as she sipped her wine, leaning back in a chair near the hearth. Her hair was astonishingly silver, long and curling to her waist, with dragon pins tucking in braids on either side of her head. Her eyes were an intense violet, shimmering as if they were made of liquid. She was truly beautiful, that much Jon could not deny, but he felt nothing stir within him whenever he looked at her.

Tyrion Lannister, her hand, sat next to Jon, downing his fifth glass of wine that morning. Jon had not seen Tyrion since he had first traveled to the wall, and the dwarf now donned a comely beard and his hair was much longer. Strangely, he looked… humbler, less golden Lannister and more mere man.

Jon had stayed overnight on the promise that they would discuss their alliance the following morning. Daenerys had agreed, and Jon and Davos had spent the evening sitting by a fire, sharing stories they’d each heard a hundred times.

Daenerys had sent men to wake Jon early that morning; Davos had not been awoken.

“So, it’s settled, then, yes?” Tyrion asked, holding a hand to his mouth to stifle a burp. Jon looked blankly at his still-full cup of wine; he preferred ale. “We will travel north with Jon, and he will repay us by traveling south with us.”

Jon did not say anything, for fear of starting another argument. He and Daenerys had grumbled at one another all morning about whether he himself would have to journey south to fight Cersei and her armies. Daenerys argued that the northern army would not want to fight for a cause their king did not care about, and Jon knew she was right. However, he did not want to leave the North again, not after returning home and fighting the dead.

He was not even sure if he would survive the battle or not.

However, the Stark in him had convinced him to agree to ride south with Daenerys after the Army of the Dead had been defeated. He could not find it within himself to be disloyal.

He was not looking forward to telling Sansa.

Something in his chest constricted as he thought of his half-sister turned cousin. He wondered what she was doing, if she had broken her fast by now or if she was still sleeping; he wasn’t even sure if the sun had risen in Winterfell. He had fallen asleep the night before to the thought of her, making her way to him in the snow, a regal picture of northern beauty as she set the crown atop his head.

“Yes,” Daenerys said stoically, pulling Jon out of his reverie. “Perhaps once Cersei has been defeated, we can discuss Jon’s crown.”

“I will not give up my crown,” Jon all but growled for the seemingly hundredth time that morning. “I will not give up the North.”

Daenerys opened her mouth to snap at him, but Tyrion chided, “Come now. You two sound like me and Cersei when we were younger. There’s no need to discuss Jon’s crown now. We’ve just settled on an agreement, no?”

Jon said nothing.

Daenerys took another sip of wine.

“Excellent,” Tyrion deadpanned. “We will depart for Winterfell as soon as we can manage. The Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers will need to be prepared for the climate. We’ll need to make sure they have plenty of clothing.” Daenerys nodded her agreement without looking at Tyrion. She continued to stare into the flames, almost appearing to yearn for them. “We will also need to bring as many supplies with us as we can manage.”

“We have little supplies left,” Daenerys said. “My dragons and my men have been here for quite some time.”

“You’re bringing the greatest army the world has ever seen into _my home_ and expecting _my people_ to give up their food, shelter, and clothing?” Jon snapped. Daenerys spun around to him, her eyes blazing. Jon did not back down from her fiery stare. “You’ll bring supplies,” he commanded.

Tyrion frowned. “We’ll do what we can.” Jon did not like the sound of that. Tyrion hopped down from his chair, downed the last bit of his wine, and walked past Daenerys with a muttered, “Your Grace.”

Jon watched as he strolled out of the room.

After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Daenerys stood and turned to exit, as well. Jon sat in thought, when a sudden realization hit him upside the head: she was family.

Not family like his Stark family, but they shared blood.

Of course, he had mentioned it before, but the weight of their situation hit him like a practice sword to the chest. She had known Rhaegar, perhaps, had spent time with him, had loved him. He did not know anything of his Targaryen lineage, and the only person in the world who could give him any sort of clue was walking away from him.

“Did you know him?” Jon asked as he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the stone. Daenerys froze but did not turn to him. “Rhaegar,” Jon clarified. “Did you know him?”

Daenerys spun slowly, her wine glass dangling tediously from her slender fingers. She seemed to consider Jon for a moment, her thick eyebrows furrowed. She, too, must have been coming to the same realization that he had. At last, she moved towards him and set her wine glass on the table.

“No,” she said. There was a touch of sadness in her voice that made Jon yearn for Robb; he had not thought of his brother in quite some time. _Cousin_, his mind hissed, but Jon refused the word. “No, I only knew Viserys.” Jon nodded and made to sit back down, but Daenerys spoke again, “I’ve heard stories, though.”

“Stories?” Jon questioned.

“From Ser Barristan Selmy,” Daenerys clarified. Jon recognized the name; he had been the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard when King Aerys was on the throne. He had stayed on for King Robert, but was exiled by King Joffrey. “He was my father’s sworn sword. He came to me whenever the boy king sent him away. He… he served me very well.” Daenerys looked away, as if remembering Ser Barristan pained her.

“What was he like?”

At that, Daenerys smiled. “Rhaegar was kind. He used to walk down the roads of King’s Landing and sing to the common people. He would give them food, money, whatever he could.” Daenerys looked down at her wine glass and fingered the edge. “He was a far kinder soul than Viserys.”

“I’m sorry you never knew him,” Jon attempted. He felt some sort of weight lift from his chest at the knowledge that his father was at least a good person, according to Daenerys.

“I am, too,” Daenerys answered. “And I am sorry you never knew him, either. Nor did you know your mother.” Daenerys shook her head. “I cannot imagine...”

Jon looked away from her. “I’ve lived my whole life without knowing my mother. Knowing her name doesn’t make it hurt any more or any less.”

Daenerys inclined her head, all traces of empathy gone. “One of my closest friends tells me that you know his father.”

Jon cleared his throat, a little off balance at the quick topic change. “Which friend?”

“Ser Jorah Mormont, of Bear Island.”

The name _Mormont_ struck a chord within Jon’s heart that he did not know existed. He was suddenly back at the Wall, being chosen as the Old Bear’s steward, not knowing at all what it would mean.

“Yes,” Jon bit out. “I knew his father.”

“Knew?”

Jon blinked. “Lord Commander Mormont was killed in a battle beyond the Wall,” Jon said, his voice barely above a whisper. He could still taste the bitter sting of betrayal. “He was murdered by his own men.”

Daenerys let her composure slip for a second. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. “I- we did not know,” she stuttered. “Jorah… He will be-”

“Proud,” Jon supplied. “He should be proud of his father.”

“I’m not sure if that’s the right word,” Daenerys said. “Ser Jorah was sent away from the North by his father and…” Daenerys peered curiously at Jon. “Lord Eddard Stark.”

Jon shrugged. “I cannot attest to that. It was my uncle’s decision, not mine. I can only assume Lord Stark sent Ser Jorah away with the best intentions in mind.”

Daenerys peered at him. “You’re an honorable man, Jon Snow.”

“I am,” Jon agreed, “or at least I try to be.”

“I am quite fond of honorable men, after knowing so little of them,” Daenerys said, a playful glint in her violet eyes.

“That’s good to hear,” Jon said, “if we’re to be allies.”

“We’ll see,” Daenerys said, and then she was gone, the wine glass to her lips.

_SANSA_

Lord Baelish returned to Winterfell soon after he had left. He had taken Sansa’s hand and told her that he only needed to spend a day within Cersei’s presence to learn all of her schemes. His breath had smelled like wine and lies, and Sansa had done her best to act honestly interested in what he had to say. Arya had stood several yards away from them in the courtyard, but Sansa could feel the heat from her gaze even still.

Sansa felt a strange pull in her gut as she thought of her relationship with Lord Baelish. She did not trust him – never had – but she had gained a small amount of respect for him when he had ridden into battle beside her with the Knights of the Vale. He had gotten her out of King’s Landing, as well, but only to kill her aunt and sell her to the Bolton’s. She knew that if she were to bring any of this up to him, he would only argue that it was all to protect her.

She truly did believe that Lord Baelish loved her, although it was not clear whether he loved _her_ or the similarities she shared with her mother. This, perhaps, made her relationship with the man worse. It was sick, his fascination with her that had begun whenever she had been a mere child, and he had used her innocence and vulnerability to persuade her to believe that he could protect her.

It did not matter whether he loved her for her or for her mother.

He _wanted_ her, and that was all she needed.

Sansa slipped away from the high table to make her way towards Lord Baelish. She could feel Arya’s eyes on her back as she walked, but she kept her gaze on the older man, sitting among the Knights of the Vale.

The men looked at her knowingly as she approached.

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa said in her most sultry tone, a sneaky smile spread across her lips. The man’s lips curved into a smile, and his eyes raked down her body once before settling on her face; Sansa shuddered. “Would you mind stepping outside with me for a moment?”

“Of course, my lady,” Lord Baelish answered, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

Sansa took his arm as they exited the Great Hall, her heart pounding in her chest as he escorted her. As soon as they had stepped into the corridor, a chill crept underneath Sansa’s dress and into her bones. She leaned in close to Lord Baelish, forcing herself to hold his eyes.

“I need your help,” Sansa whispered. Lord Baelish raised an eyebrow at her. “Arya is planning to turn Jon against me when he returns.”

“How is it that you have come to know this?” he asked.

Sansa glanced around them quickly and said, “Bran.”

“And how is it that your dear brother would know of such a thing?”

Sansa chewed the inside of her cheek. “Bran has… visions.” Lord Baelish cocked his head, but Sansa went on. “I don’t know how to explain it, but he can see things. He told me Arya’s been visiting the northern lords at night and telling them that you and I have been scheming with one another.”

“Well,” Lord Baelish began, cupping her elbow and scooting closer, “that information is not entirely false, is it, my love?”

Sansa shivered unpleasantly.

“No, but I cannot have her turning Jon against me,” she said. “If Jon finds out that I’ve been working with you behind his back, he’ll turn me away for good. We will no longer be welcome in Winterfell.”

“I do not think your gracious king would send his sweet sister away,” Lord Baelish said, a hint of possession in his voice. He slid his hand further up her arm; Sansa’s heart was beating so loudly that she feared he could hear it. “Not after she’s done so much for him already.” He leaned in to her, so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. “You let him have your crown, my love. Do not forget that he stole what was rightfully yours.”

Just then, two men stumbled out of the Great Hall, jugs of ale in their large hands. They were in no hurry; they merely peered curiously at Sansa and Lord Baelish before resuming their conversation.

“Meet me in the godswood tonight. We can talk more,” Sansa whispered. She reached for his hand, gave it a quick squeeze, and marched down the corridor.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's one of those times in which traveling happens basically overnight. I'm sorry if that bothers any of you.
> 
> Also, I'm not familiar with castle layouts nor am I a battle tactician, so forgive me if any of my descriptions are off. 
> 
> Thank you again for the encouraging words!

_DAENERYS_

“Your Grace,” Jon Snow said by way of greeting.

Dany stood in her doorway, her eyes raking over him in his northern leather; he looked less like a Targaryen each time she saw him.

“Come in, my lord,” Dany said, refusing to call him by his so-called title.

Jon moved awkwardly into her solar, a scroll in his gloved hand. Dany could easily detect the exhaustion on his face. His skin was ashen, as if he hadn’t gotten much sleep or food in days, although Dany had provided him with a bed and plenty of food. Even his hair had lost some of its curl, falling limp at his shoulders.

If she had to guess, Jon Snow was homesick.

His thick eyebrows were drawn together when he said, “A raven came from the North. My br- cousin has seen the Army of the Dead. He predicts they will be at Winterfell within days. They’ve scaled the Wall.” Dany opened her mouth to object, but Jon said, “It’s possible. I’ve done it. And I trust Bran.” Jon sighed. “The dead are coming.”

Dany’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. She did not expect to leave Dragonstone so soon; Jon had only been there for a mere handful of days. She did not want to face this Army of the Dead, nor did she want to lose any more of her men than she already had.

Worse, she did not want to put her dragons at any risk.

“Have you spoken with Tyrion yet?” Dany asked calmly, even though her fingers were trembling as she clasped her hands in front of her.

Jon shook his head, his curls falling from behind his ears. “I thought you should know first, seeing as you’re the one who does the commanding.”

Dany nodded her thanks and stood. A chill rose up her arms, another reminder that Dragonstone had been getting cooler by the day. Even in her mock dragon scale dress, she felt far too exposed to the chill.

“We’ll go to him together, then. We should leave sooner than we had planned, I assume.”

Jon said nothing, only followed her out of her solar and into the corridor. The pair walked outside the castle and into the sunlight, crossing a stone bridge that led to the tower that Tyrion stayed in. As they walked, Dany soaked up as much of the sun as she could manage. It was much warmer directly underneath the sun, and although it was true Dany could walk through fire, she was no stranger to the cold.

Just before they entered Tyrion’s tower, a dragon screeched overhead. Dany knew it was Rhaegal, and she smiled at the sound of him. She watched as his shadow passed over them, and Jon Snow hit the floor of the bridge.

He ducked his head and covered his face as well as he could manage, an audible gasp escaping him. Dany watched, amused, as Rhaegal went on, and Jon remained on the floor.

“What the hell was that?” Jon growled as he removed his arms from his face. With his face scrunched in anger at being embarrassed, he sort of looked like a child.

“Rhaegal,” Dany answered. “One of my children.”

Jon’s eyes softened, but his body stayed rigid. “Rhaegal?”

“Yes,” Dany said, “for my brother.”

“You said your brother was kind,” Jon said as he rose, “not a monster.”

“My children are not monsters,” Dany snapped. She watched as Jon stood and dusted his leathers off. He stood with his arms dangling at his sides, squinting at her in the sunlight as if he wasn’t sure why she had snapped at him. “They are beautiful. They are the only family I have.” She cringed as soon as the words came out.

“Family,” Jon repeated, ignoring the fact that he was her family, as well. “They’re animals.”

“Not to me.”

Dany walked past him and was pleased to hear his footsteps behind her. “I have a direwolf at home,” Jon said awkwardly, and Dany almost snorted at his attempt at conversation. His voice was strained, as if he didn’t want to speak with her but felt as if he needed to. “He’s like family, I suppose.”

“Tell me of your real family, Jon Snow,” Dany said as they entered the tower and began the climb to Tyrion’s solar. “Tell me of the Starks.”

It took Jon a few moments to speak; Dany did not dare look behind her at him.

“We were raised as siblings,” Jon said slowly. His voice had lost some of its clumsiness. “I thought Lord Eddard was my father, as did everyone else. His lady wife despised me, with good reason, I suppose, although I couldn’t help what I was. She didn’t accept me as one of her own, not truly, although she allowed me to live with them and learn with them and train with them. Her children, they all thought of me as a true brother.” A pause. “All of them except Sansa.”

“Sansa?” Dany asked, the name striking a familiar chord in her brain.

“Sansa Stark,” Jon said, his voice tinted with something that Dany could not place, “the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Why do I recognize her name?”

Jon cleared his throat. “She was briefly married to Tyrion.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Dany agreed, recalling Tyrion’s brief description of Jon Snow before he had arrived. “Their marriage was never annulled, though.”

“Nor was it consummated,” Jon said, almost hotly, “making it null.”

Dany lifted an eyebrow at that. “Tell me of this Sansa, and your other siblings. I only ever knew Viserys, and he was no joy to grow up with.”

“Robb was the eldest,” Jon started as they continued their climb. “Then Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Arya was…” A beat passed, and Dany could almost hear the slight smile in his voice when he continued. “Arya meant – _means_ – a lot to me. They all do.”

“Where are they now?”

“Robb and his lady mother were murdered at a wedding,” Jon said, almost emotionlessly. This surprised Dany, though she said nothing. “Sansa is ruling Winterfell in my stead, Arya has been missing since the day Lord Eddard was executed, Bran is in Winterfell with Sansa, and Rickon was murdered by…” Jon paused; Dany tilted her head. “Rickon was murdered.”

“You said they all accepted you,” Dany said, “all except Sansa.” This was the most she had gotten Jon to speak, except when he was arguing with her. She found his life fascinating. She had never had a true family, only her brother, and while she counted Ser Jorah and Missandei as family, they would never truly be her kin. Jon had such a large family, with so many siblings to call friends. She liked to hear him talk about them, although it made her feel sad, and perhaps a bit jealous. “Why?”

As they reached the top of the tower, Dany heard Jon blow out a breath; she wasn’t sure if it was because of the climbing or the question.

“Sansa…” Jon started. Dany turned to him, and the look on his face took her aback. She was not expecting to see the gallant Jon Snow’s cheeks pink or his eyes soft; he looked less like a warrior and more like a mere man. “She was her mother’s daughter. She treated me like a bastard brother because her mother treated me like a bastard son. She only wanted to please her mother.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Dany commented, studying him.

Jon shook his head. “It did, but… things have changed since then.”

“What changed?”

Dany wasn’t sure why she asked. Perhaps it was her interest in the dynamic of his family, or perhaps it was the unexplainable look on his face; whatever it was, she found herself wanting to know the answer.

Jon visibly struggled to speak. He scrunched his eyebrows together and looked down at his feet, scuffing his boots against the stone floor. At last, he settled for, “I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it.” He sighed then, and added, “Once, I wouldn’t have paid her a second thought; now, I’d kill the man or woman who dared to mistreat her.”

Dany had no words for that.

She had never known that kind of love.

_SANSA_

Sansa stood in the godswood with her cloak wrapped securely around her. She fingered the miniature needle that was hooked onto a chain underneath her cloak, nerves getting the best of her as she waited. Snowflakes drifted from the sky as she shuffled her booted feet, and the northern winds nipped at her nose and cheeks. Normally, she welcomed the bite of the cold air, but that evening, it only added to her fidgety nervousness.

Logic told her that Arya was nearby, but she could not fight the anxiety that clawed at her throat.

“My lady.” Lord Baelish’s voice echoed eerily throughout the godswood. Sansa tensed involuntarily, her fingers tightening around the miniature needle. “You look so lovely tonight.”

“Thank you, Petyr,” Sansa answered, looking at him from underneath hooded eyelids.

Lord Baelish’s green eyes sparkled at her words. He was wrapped in a cloak of his own, and it made her uneasy that she could not see his hands. He made his way through the snow unevenly, looking out of place and clumsy in the northern weather.

“I received word that your brother will be returning home soon,” Lord Baelish said. Sansa could not place the look on his face. “That must be exciting, no?”

“No,” Sansa said, drawing her eyebrows together. “Do you not remember what we discussed earlier this evening?”

“I do remember, although it puzzles me so,” Lord Baelish said as he neared her. They were mere feet away from one another; Sansa could see the wrinkles in his forehead. “You do seem so very fond of your brother.”

“I am,” Sansa started, “but I am fonder of the picture you told me about.” She swallowed thickly. “The picture of you on the throne and me beside you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Sansa said forcefully.

“It seems strange,” he commented, close enough know that he could touch her if he wanted, “that you were so set on rejecting my offer in the past, but now…” He shook his head and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “What changed, my love?”

“I realized what I wanted,” Sansa said. “I was wrong to reject you before.”

“And what was it that made you come to your senses?”

“Arya,” Sansa said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “She made me realize that Jon would love her more than me once he returned home, and I would lose any chance of ruling the North.”

“And so you desire to sit the throne now?” Lord Baelish raised an eyebrow. “With me?”

Sansa swallowed; her throat was too tight. “Yes.”

Lord Baelish smiled and shook his head, his eyes glistening like a snake’s. He laughed lowly, unsettlingly, and tilted his head at Sansa. “You have always been a bad liar, my love. Have you learned nothing from me?”

A chill traveled down Sansa’s spine, and her stomach churned.

_He knows he knows he knows he knows he knows_.

Sansa had no time to warn her sister.

Just as Arya crept out from behind a heart tree, Lord Baelish drew a dagger from underneath his cloak. It was a long, twisted thing, with a ruby on the handle. It was gorgeous, terrifying in the moonlight as it pointed towards Arya.

Fear shot through Sansa’s body, though Arya was not afraid; her face did not change and she did not flinch. She held Needle tightly in her left hand as Lord Baelish’s dagger neared her throat. Sansa wanted to act, wanted to reach out for her, to tell her to leave, but she could not; Lord Baelish was not above killing for her, she knew.

“My love,” Lord Baelish said to Sansa without looking at her, “you do not think so little of me, do you?”

Sansa steeled herself. She clutched her needle underneath her cloak and thought of her lady mother, standing before thousands of northmen beside Robb. She thought of her sister, fighting for her life in Bravos. She thought of her sworn sword, kneeling before her in the snow somewhere in the northern woods and promising to protect her.

_I am not afraid. I am a wolf of Winterfell_.

“My lord,” Sansa said loudly, mimicking his tone, “you do not think so little of _me_, do you?”

Ghost growled lowly as he crept beside her, the furs on the back of his neck standing up straight; Sansa buried a gloved hand there for strength. The sound of swords being drawn filled the godswood, and without turning around, Sansa knew that behind her stood Lord Royce and ten more Knights of the Vale, ready to deliver justice to the interim Lord of the Vale.

_JON_

The journey to Winterfell took far longer than Jon had expected. In reality, it was the same distance as his trip to Dragonstone, but Jon was far more anxious to return home, which made the boat seem as if it were barely moving. He seldom slept, preferring to spend his time avoiding Tyrion and standing on the edge of the boat, looking out across the sea, towards home.

During their boat ride, Jon had gotten the chance to speak briefly with Jorah Mormont. The resemblance between Jorah and his father had been unsettling, at first, but Jon had soon found that Jorah was as honorable a man as his father had been. Jon shared fond memories of the Old Bear with Jorah, who seemed to both enjoy the stories and become saddened by them.

Once they had come to shore, Jon and Davos were given back their horses, and Daenerys, Tyrion, Jorah, Missandei, and Greyworm were given horses from a nearby village. The seven of them rode ahead of Daenerys’s army, with her three dragons flying overhead.

Jon tried to not kick his horse ahead of all the rest; after all, he was the one leading Daenerys and her army, so he couldn’t exactly leave them stranded. However, he wanted more than anything to be back in Winterfell, to see Sansa once more. He had lost count of the amount of days he’d been gone, and he had started to yearn for Sansa.

He had spent every day with her since her arrival at Castle Black; he had not been prepared to be separated from her for such a long time. He hated it, not being able to visit her chamber in the evening or look to her for advice. He knew that Davos was logistically his hand, but Sansa was the one he spoke to about everything, the one whose opinion he cared most about.

More than anything, he wanted to explore whatever it was that he felt for her. He needed answers, answers that he could only get by spending more time with her.

Suddenly, the gates of Winterfell were looming overhead. Jon gripped his reins so tightly that his knuckles were white. Overhead, the dragons screeched and made for the surrounding woods.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Ser Davos said from behind Jon.

“It’s not changed at all,” Jorah noted, craning his neck to see more.

“It… it’s very grey,” Daenerys commented, and Jon did not have to turn around to know her eyes were squinted in disproval.

Jon almost snorted. “It’s no castle of dragon glass, that’s for sure,” he said. Before they had departed from Dragonstone, they had mined as much dragon glass as they could manage; Unsullied soldiers in the back of their large group were hauling the loads.

“Still, it’s beautiful,” Daenerys said, and her tone was honest. “The North is beautiful.”

“It is,” Jon heard himself say as they approached the gates at last.

“Beautiful,” Tyrion deadpanned. “I think my balls are frozen solid. Did it get colder since I last visited?”

Davos chuckled.

The four guards standing outside the gates dropped to their knees as Jon approached. All four of them Jon recognized as loyal northerners; he nodded his head at them and they stood.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” one of them called. Beside him, Daenerys flinched, but said nothing. “We alerted the Lady as soon as we saw you approaching.”

“Thank you, my lords,” Jon said stiffly, his mind still on Sansa, inside the gates.

The four men opened the gates. Jon heard Daenerys say something to Greyworm in a language he did not recognize, and Greyworm turned back to the army and repeated what she said.

Jon and Davos went ahead into the gates, and Daenerys, Tyrion, and Missandei followed; Jorah and Greyworm dismounted their horses and stayed behind with the Unsullied soldiers and the rest of the army.

As soon as Jon saw a flash of red hair, he was kicking his horse forward, forgetting about his guests. He jumped off his mare as he approached, Sansa and Bran side by side, surrounded by the Lords of Winterfell. Brienne stood on the other side of Sansa, and Podrick stood beside her, and next was Tormund, grinning like a fool.

It was good to be home.

Sansa wore a cloak around her shoulders, but the gown underneath was new. It was a beautiful lavender color, with blue winter roses lining the breastplate armor. She stood tall and lifted her chin proudly as Jon and his entourage entered Winterfell. Curls of her auburn hair was braided on the sides, but otherwise fell loosely down her shoulders. Jon could not fight the swelling of his heart as he looked at her.

Jon rushed forward and tugged Sansa into his arms without saying a word. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand at the small of her back and the other pressed against the spot between her shoulder blades. He buried his face into her hair as she wrapped her slender arms around him, as well, squeezing him even closer to her. He breathed in her scent deeply, vaguely aware that they had an audience.

“Welcome home,” Sansa whispered, and Jon’s chest thrummed with the sound of his rapid heartbeat.

“New dress?” he said dumbly.

Against him, he felt Sansa’s chest cave with a breathy laugh, perhaps thinking back on a particular day at Castle Black as he was. “You noticed.”

“Aye.” He kept his eyes closed when he asked, “Ghost?”

“Hunting.”

He pulled away at last, his lips curved into what he presumed was a boyish grin. Sansa set her hands on his shoulders to keep him close. She said in a low voice, “Arya’s home.”

Jon felt as if he might faint.

He had not been expecting to see Arya ever again. He had long given up hope that his favorite person in the world was still alive, although he had not yet come to terms with the possibility of her death. He imagined what she might look like then, all grown up and without a trace of the young girl he had known so well.

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but all his breath had been stolen away. He shook his head numbly. Sansa said, “Introduce me, and then go to the godswood. I’ll take care of our guests.”

Jon could do nothing but nod as he heard footsteps behind him.

Daenerys approached with Missandei and Tyrion flanking her. Daenerys’s eyes raked Sansa up and down, although Jon could not get a clear read on her expression; Missandei looked forward stoically. Tyrion reached for Sansa first, taking her hand and kissing the back of it kindly. Jon narrowed his eyes at the imp.

“What a pleasure it is to see you again, my lady,” Tyrion said, and the tone of his voice was entirely genuine. A smile crept onto his face, a smile Jon had not yet seen Tyrion wear.

“You, as well, my lord,” Sansa replied, her lips quirking into a smile. “I never thought our paths would cross again.”

“Nor did I,” Tyrion responded, tilting his head up at her. “You’ve grown quite a bit since the last time I saw you.”

Sansa’s eyes shined playfully. “I cannot say the same for you, my lord.”

Tyrion laughed loudly and looked up at Jon. “Quite the jester, your lady,” he commented, shaking his head. Jon knew he meant nothing by the last words, but he still felt his heart skip a beat.

Daenerys stepped forward then, a polite, stiff smile on her face. She was still trying to figure Sansa out, but the Lady of Winterfell was almost unreadable to those who did not know her like Jon did.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Sansa said, although she did not bow.

Jon was thrown backwards in time, and it was no longer Sansa and Daenerys but Lady Catelyn and Cersei Lannister standing in front of one another. Sansa sounded so much like her lady mother, courteous yet not likely to give an inch to this southern queen.

“Thank you, my lady,” Daenerys said, her tone curious. “I am glad to finally meet the woman Jon has said so much about.”

“All good things, I hope,” Sansa said with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course, my lady,” Daenerys said. “Your cousin is as stubborn as he is kind.” She looked at Jon with a kind smile.

Sansa stiffened.

“Yes, well,” Sansa said, looking briefly to the ground and clearing her throat, “allow me to show you to your chambers so you may rest. I’m sure your journey was long. We will have a proper welcoming feast this evening.”

Sansa looked at Jon, nodded once, and led Daenerys and the rest towards the castle. Jon watched as Sansa walked away, and wished he could follow her, but his heart ultimately pulled him to the godswood. He made short time of the walk.

There, underneath the biggest tree, sat a small person. The person was dressed in man’s clothing with hair pinned up in the back, like Jon wore his, like Eddard Stark used to wear his. The person was sharpening a thin sword, a sword that almost brough tears to Jon’s eyes.

“Needle,” he said stupidly as he approached, his voice catching. “You still have it.”

When Arya turned at last, Jon felt something in hist chest give.

In no time, Arya flung herself into Jon’s arms. Jon held her up, spinning her in the air as he breathed in the scent of her and laughed giddily. He was so happy to see her that he felt as if his heart might burst, or his cheeks might cramp from smiling so big. Setting her down, Jon placed his hands on either of her shoulders and beamed at her.

“You’ve got a beard now,” Arya said, her voice deeper but still the same.

“Aye,” Jon said, “and you’ve gotten taller.” He tilted his head, “Well, sort of.”

Arya scowled, and Jon almost missed the younger her that would’ve stuck her tongue out at him. Her face was still the fact of the little girl he once knew, but somehow it was aged, as if it had been through too much. Her eyes were older, too, and Jon feared what those big eyes might have seen all these years.

“You brought dragons,” Arya noted stoically.

“Aye, I did,” Jon said. “They’ll help us win the war.”

“And their mother?”

Jon blinked. “What about her?”

“She’s here, too, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Jon said, “and so is her army.”

“And we need her army?”

“Yes,” Jon said slowly, trying to tiptoe his way around an argument. Arya said nothing, only kept staring at him with her big Stark eyes, so much like his own. “I wouldn’t have brought her here if we didn’t need her.”

Arya broke a smile at last, and Jon returned it eagerly. She nodded at his hip and said, “That’s a nice sword.” She reached forward and touched the handle, adding, “I like the wolf bit.”

Jon let out a breathy laugh, remembering himself saying much the same thing some time ago. “Aye, me, too.”

“So, you’re still a wolf, then?” Arya asked, looking up at him with hopeful eyes. She had sobered suddenly, and Jon was beginning to get dizzy with her switching of demeanor. “Still a Stark?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jon asked, dropping his hands and leaning back.

Snow began to drift gently down, landing in Arya’s hair and settling around her head like a crown. She placed a small hand on the hilt of Needle and squinted her eyes, studying him.

“I didn’t know if you would start calling yourself a Targaryen now,” Arya said, a bit defensively.

Jon stared blankly down at her, his lips parted in surprise and confusion. His mind reeled, and a fresh hurt unfurled in his chest at the thought of Arya disowning him as a brother. Arya, his sister, his feisty little sister who loved to playfight and run through the courtyard with Nymeria on her heels, his little sister who he loved so much…

Jon could not let her think he was no longer a Stark, but he wondered…

“Who-”

“Sansa told me,” Arya said.

“Sansa told you,” Jon repeated, his chest tightening. Since when had Arya and Sansa had conversations, conversations deep enough to discuss his parentage? Jon cleared his throat and reined in his frustration. He stared at the snowy ground, at his boots being covered in snowflakes. “How could she… Why would she do that?”

“I sort of made her tell me,” Arya said, shrugging her shoulders. “But that’s not what matters. What matters is that you’re a Stark. You always have been and you always will be.” She eyed him curiously and added, “And I’m not calling you Aegon. Bloody horrible name.”

Jon drew his eyebrows together and forced angry thoughts about Sansa out of his head. Somehow, a smile found its way onto his face. “Aye, I’m a Stark. I’m afraid I don’t have the right hair color to be a Targaryen.”

Arya snorted and shook her head at him. “I can’t believe I used to think you were funny.” Jon made a face and started to snap back, but Arya said, “Come, brother. We’ve much to talk about, starting with why in the hell you forced yourself to go to that bloody wall in the first place.”

_DAENERYS_

The northern lords and ladies did not care that Jon was no true Stark. Whenever their king sat them all down and announced his true name, they whispered amongst themselves for several moments, but in the end, they pulled their swords out for him once more, exclaiming that he was of Lyanna’s blood, therefore he still had the blood of the wolf.

None of them mentioned that he was the true heir to the throne, something that Dany still felt she needn’t bring to anyone’s attention.

Over the course of the following days, Dany found herself biting her tongue more often than not. A plethora of people from all over the North traveled to Winterfell to seek safety or to pledge to Jon’s cause, each of them coming before the King in the North and bowing.

Tyrion had to snatch her wrist under the table to keep her from saying something whenever Theon Greyjoy – whose sister had already pledged to Dany’s cause – dropped to his knee in front of not Jon, but _Sansa_, and vowed to fight for Winterfell, for her sake.

Aside from gnawing on the inside of her cheek until it bled while everyone around her referred to Jon as _king_, Dany found situation in the North acceptable, although she had never felt more out of place. She didn’t care too much for the cold of the North, but she did like to watch the snow fall as the sun set and the moon took its place. The handmaiden that had been seeing to her suggested she visit the winter rose garden if she ever found the time, but she had yet to do so.

Dany and Jon had been enjoying a familial – albeit clumsy – relationship that Dany had not expected. Jon was no jester or charmer, but he was a kind man, and Dany found him easy to be around, although others seemed to cower in his presence.

That was one thing they had in common.

The northerners did not take too well to Dany’s arrival, and they still had not gotten used to her presence. They did not bow before her, they did not call her queen, and they did not treat her with the upmost respect, as Tyrion had promised they would. They merely ignored her, most of all Sansa.

Dany could not overlook the loathing, side-eyed glances that Sansa tossed her way, especially whenever she chose to sit next to Jon in council meetings or at feasts. She supposed it must be a bit strange for her, inviting her cousin’s aunt into her home without knowing anything about her and watching her do as she pleases.

Dany had been expecting to feel like some sort of outsider to Jon and Sansa’s relationship, but the two had barely spoken since their reunion in the courtyard, some days ago. If they had talked at all, it was not in a place where others could see, and Dany doubted either of them had been sneaking out of their chambers in the middle of the night.

It was at that time that Dany felt the piercing gaze that belonged to the North’s Lady, but when she glanced up and across the table, Sansa had dropped her eyes to the map laying before them.

“The Ironborn will protect Bran in the godswood,” Theon Greyjoy announced from Sansa’s side, causing the redhead’s head to snap up.

“What?” she said, sounding genuinely surprised. “No.”

Dany’s eyebrows drew together as she watched the two exchange looks. There was something deeply emotional and unsaid between the two, although Dany could not place it. She looked to Jon for understanding, but he merely watched Theon with tight lips.

“Let me defend him, Sansa,” Theon said softly, his eyes never leaving Sansa’s face. Her brow was furrowed, her face stricken; Theon laid a scarred hand atop hers. “I took this castle from him. I want to protect him.”

Sansa said nothing, only bit her lip and withdrew her hand from underneath his.

Jon cleared his throat. “Alright, then. The Ironborn will be with Bran in the godswood. Daenerys’ army will protect the front gates, and the northern army will split up and line either side.” Jon looked down to Dany from where he stood. “You and Drogon will stay in the godswood with Bran.”

“I need to be in the front, with my people,” Dany argued.

“I don’t want you to risk your dragons, and Bran needs all the protection he can get,” Jon said. “I need you in the godswood.” They held eye contact for several moments before Jon added, “Please.”

“Alright, nephew,” Dany said.

When she turned back to the map, Sansa’s jaw was set.

“Bran?” Jon called. The youngest Stark was seated in his wheelchair – designed by Tyrion – near the hearth, his hands crossed in his lap as he gazed into the flames. A girl by the name of Meera Reed stood by his side with a hand on his shoulder; Dany scarcely saw them apart. Bran turned his head towards Jon. “How much time do we have?”

Bran’s face did not change when he said, “No more than one day. I cannot tell exactly how close they are, but we need to be prepared for their arrival any moment now.”

A hush fell over the room then. It was as if everyone’s stomachs dropped to their feet at the same time. Dany glued her eyes to the godswood and tried not to imagine falling off Drogon, being struck down by an arrow, being speared as she tried to climb back up-

It was the large, redheaded wildling that finally broke the silence.

“We’re all going to die,” he said. Looking up at Sansa’s sworn sword suggestively, he added, “But at least we’ll die together, eh?”

Jon’s hand – or the man Dany assumed to be his hand, although he wore no pin – snorted.

“Let’s get some rest,” Jon said at last, his voice hoarse. “Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped against stone as everyone stood and began to make their way out of the council room. Dany watched as everyone left, everyone except Sansa, who seemed to hang back further than the rest.

“Nephew,” Dany said before Jon could exit, as well. “May I speak with you?”

Dany wasn’t sure what had transpired between Jon and Sansa, but he had seemed very, _very_ anxious to return home. If they only had less than a day left, she felt as if she might as well help Jon in any way she could. They were family, after all.

The door slammed shut behind Sansa.

Jon blinked as he stared passed Dany, at the shut door. Finally, he shook himself and said, “Of course.”

“I cannot help but notice,” Dany started, nearing Jon casually, “that your cousin seems to be in a permanent foul mood.”

Jon’s lips quirked upwards, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as he smiled. “Arya,” Jon said. “She’s not in a foul mood, you just have to know her.” He nodded. “She’ll come around to you, eventually.”

“Not Arya,” Dany said, raising an eyebrow. “Sansa.”

Jon’s smile fell, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Sansa?”

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Dany said slyly. “You two have barely talked since we arrived. Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened,” Jon answered, almost too quickly. “I suppose she’s been a bit… distant.” Jon folded his arms across his chest. “Although, I’m not sure why she’s any of your concern.”

“She does not seem to be very fond of you, is all,” Dany said, “which I find strange, considering how you feel about her.”

“What do you mean?”

“You love her,” Dany said plainly, “but she never seems to be interested in what you have to say, and she’s not tried to make conversation with me, your aunt, at all. She’s always frowning-”

“_What_?” Jon cut her off.

His eyes were as wide as Dany had ever seen them, and it seemed as if all the blood in his body had rushed to his cheeks. His lips were parted and his skin was ashen. He was staring at Dany unblinkingly, as if she had just told some horrible, unimaginable secret.

“What?” Dany repeated innocently.

“Y-you just said…” Jon trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t… I don’t _love_ her.”

Dany snorted. “You don’t? Ever since my arrival in Winterfell, I’ve done nothing but watch you look after her like a lovesick puppy.” Dany shook her head. “Either you do love her or you’re too thick to realize it.”

“I- I don’t,” Jon tried again, impossibly flustered. He refused to look at Dany, almost completely confirming what Dany had said. “She’s… we’re cousins. We’re family.”

“And the Targaryen’s wed brother and sister for thousands of years,” Dany said simply. “I do not think your gods would look down upon cousins marrying.”

“_Marrying_?”

“What?”

“Please, uh- excuse me, Your Grace,” Jon said, tugging at his leathers as if he couldn’t breathe, “but I must… I have to go-”

Dany watched as the King in the North rushed out of the room, more rattled than she had ever seen any king before.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not familiar with castle layouts, but to avoid the whole crypt thing being an issue, I have changed the "safe zone" during battles to the library. Because of that, the library is in a much safer position than it usually would be. 
> 
> Also, I'm not very good at writing fight scenes, so this is brief. 
> 
> Thank you again for the encouraging comments. It means so much to me when someone takes time from their day to leave kind words for me.

_JON_

Jon wrung his hands together as he stalked out of the council room. His heart was thrumming wildly in his chest, his mind whirling at what his aunt had suggested.

He didn’t love Sansa.

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He thought about her constantly, yearned to be with her, needed to protect her, sought out her advice, pictured her next to him as queen, dreamed of laying down next to her, wanted to know what it was like to hold her, to kiss her cheeks and her nose and her lips-

He didn’t _love_ her.

Jon balled his hands into fists and rubbed his eyes, groaning to himself.

He needed sleep more than anything, but the way Sansa had been behaving recently had frustrated him more and more each day. First, she told Arya about his parentage, and now she was ignoring him? Jon could not wrap his mind around it.

Jon found himself wishing he was someone else, just for a day, so that he could watch himself interact with Sansa. He thought he treated her with respect and kindness well enough, but…

He couldn’t truly look like a… l_ovesick puppy_, could he?

No, that wasn’t him. Not Jon. It had taken all of him to even admit to Ygritte that he loved her, and what he felt for Ygritte was not the same as what he felt for Sansa.

Jon did not want to know what Ygritte would look like with children running around her skirts. He did not want to hold Ygritte close for hours on end, running his hands through her hair until she fell asleep. He did not want to spend nights by the fire watching her sew, so peaceful, in a world of her own.

He was going mad.

Taking a steadying, deep breath, Jon opened the door to Sansa’s chamber without knocking. He stood in the doorway for several seconds, unable to keep himself from drinking in the sight of her.

Sansa was seated near the hearth, the flames casting deep shadows on her long, auburn curls, which had been unpinned and fell down her shoulders. She still wore her gown, and her hands were deftly sewing a piece of fabric that sat in her lap. She did not bother to look up when the door opened, and part of Jon wanted to yell at her for being so careless.

Ghost merely lifted his head and blinked at Jon from where he lay near Sansa’s feet.

“Alright,” he said, “out with it.”

Sansa continued to sew, not even flinching or glancing up at him. “Out with what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t.”

Jon slammed the door behind him, but Sansa merely began a new line of stitches. She licked her lips and leaned in closer to her work. Jon’s hands balled into fists in his frustration. “You…” He huffed. “You’ve been acting different.”

“Have I?”

“Yes,” Jon snapped. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Sansa did not reply. “Is it because of Arya?”

“What about Arya?”

“You told her,” Jon said, and Sansa still did not look up. “You told her about my parentage before I had the chance.” Although she continued to sew, Sansa’s lips twitched, as if she wanted to say something. “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa sighed. “She and I were talking about you and… well she just kept implying that I was glad that you were gone because that meant I could rule instead of you.” Sansa’s eyebrows drew together. “She wouldn’t stop saying that I didn’t think of you as a brother. That I… hated you, or something. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just blurted out that you weren’t our brother, not truly.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, really, for that, I am. I should never have said anything about it but… I wasn’t glad you were gone.”

“So, I’m not your brother, then?” Jon said hotly.

“That’s not what I meant,” Sansa said, but there was no frustration in her words.

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have said anything,” Jon grumbled, softened only slightly by Sansa’s apology. He folded his arms across his chest, willing her to look at him. “You could’ve told me that sooner.”

“I know,” Sansa said. “I just…”

“What?”

“Never mind it.”

“No,” Jon said. “You’ve hardly spoken to me at all, Sansa. You run out of any room I walk into, you barely look at me at dinner, and…” He sighed, his cheeks pinkening slightly. “You’ve not come to my chambers in the evening since I’ve returned. We spent every evening together until I left, and now you don’t come at all.” Sansa said nothing still. “You’ve not attempted a conversation with Daenerys, who _is_ my family-”

“Do _not_ say that,” Sansa said, at last looking up to him. Her icy Tully eyes cut into him like a thousand swords, piercing through his chest and slicing into his heart. He held her eyes for several seconds, frozen in place by her glare.

“What?” Jon challenged, snapping out of his reverie taking a step closer. The sound of her voice, alive and biting, thrilled him. “She’s my family, Sansa.”

“You hardly know her.”

“That doesn’t change what she is to me,” Jon argued. “She’s as much my family as you are.” Even as he said them, the words felt twisted and wrong.

Sansa stood then, dropping the fabric and her needle into the chair and nearing him dangerously. Her eyes were blazing, and she stood taller than usual. Jon fought the urge to back away. Ghost picked his head up off the floor, narrowing his ruby eyes at Jon with peculiar interest.

“She is _not_,” Sansa hissed. “She doesn’t know you.”

“We’ve spent time together-”

“She’s got you right where she wants you!” Sansa exclaimed, her cheeks tinted red with frustration. She looked so beautiful in the firelight; Jon’s chest ached as he took in the sight of her. “She’s called you _nephew_ so many times that she’s actually got you believing that she’s your family, that she cares for you. She just wants the North.”

“She knows she can’t have the North,” Jon countered. “I’ve told her that.”

“That doesn’t matter to her!” Sansa said. “She’s here to claim the Seven Kingdoms. The North is one of those Seven Kingdoms.” She shook her head exasperatedly. “Can’t you see? She’s trying to make you one of her own so that she can take the North right out from underneath you. She’s already got you spending more time with her than anyone else.”

“_That’s_ why you’ve been ignoring me?” Jon asked. “That’s why you won’t speak to her?” Sansa’s lips formed a thin line. “Are you jealous?”

Sansa’s eyebrows drew together and she narrowed her blue eyes. “I am _not_ jealous,” she snapped. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Because you think she’s trying to take me away,” Jon said, blinking at her as if he’d just realized something monumental.

“She is!” Sansa said, basically confirming Jon’s suspicions, even though she had just denied them. “She’s trying to take you from us.” Sansa stepped closer, as regal and dangerous as Jon had ever seen her. “She cannot take you away. You belong to House Stark. You are the North’s.” She was so close that Jon could feel the heat from her body, or maybe it was from his, he couldn’t tell. “You’re _mine_.”

It was then that something within Jon snapped. Something deep in his belly burned, and pain erupted in his chest so sweetly that he simply could not take it any longer. He lunged forward, cupping Sansa’s face with his hands and crashing his lips to hers.

As their lips came together, Jon’s nerves came to life. He felt as if he was in some sort of trance, as if it was not actually happening. He had expected it to feel wrong, kissing her, but nothing in his life had ever felt so right.

Her lips were soft against his, and it was obvious that she was unsure whether she should kiss him back or pull away. He traced his thumbs across her cheekbones, attempting to memorize the feel of her skin before she took it away from him.

Sure enough, Sansa pulled back, her blue eyes wide and confused. Her cheeks were a warm pink, and her lips were parted almost in wonder. She looked so perfect, so much more than he could ever ask for, that he almost forgot to feel guilty.

It was the confusion in her eyes that finally pulled him back to reality. He knew, deep within his heart, that Sansa had most likely never been the one to initiate a kiss. She had felt unsure against his mouth, and he knew that was because she had never been given the time to learn how to properly enjoy a kiss.

A woman of almost twenty years who had never had the liberty to kiss whomever she pleased, however she pleased.

Jon closed his eyes and sighed, his body still buzzing. “Sansa, I-”

“Shh,” she cut him off, bringing her slender hands to either side of his face. He kept his eyes closed, savoring the feel of her cool hands against his cheeks. Her fingers curled above his ears, and he hoped she would not think him foolish for blushing like a green boy. “Don’t speak.”

And then, _she_ kissed _him_.

Jon had never known such elation and affection.

His hands slid to her waist to hold her closer, and her fingernails raked through his curls. Eventually, she undid the tie that held his hair back, letting his locks fall. Her lips moved slowly against his, and Jon was more than happy to let her take her time exploring.

It was when Sansa tugged on the curls at the nape of Jon’s neck and made a sound that was a cross between a whimper and a groan that Jon lost it.

He tangled one of his hands into her hair and walked her backwards, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of her bed and she was forced to sit. She pulled him down with her, her hands straying from his hair and finding the laces of his jerkin.

“Sansa,” Jon whispered, the timber of his own voice surprising him. He wanted to be with her, more than he had ever wanted anything, but he yearned to know how she felt about it. She had seen so much violence in her lifetime, especially from men, and the last thing he wanted was for her to feel like she _had_ to do anything. “What are we doing?”

Sansa shook her head, her eyebrows coming together as she continued to untie his jerkin. “I-I don’t know,” she admitted. Her voice was huskier than Jon had ever heard it; the sound made him want her even more.

“Tell me what to do,” Jon said, pressing his lips to her forehead tenderly. He watched as her fingers trembled nervously against his chest, and he tried to not let his anger and frustration at other men take away from the euphoria he was feeling. “I don’t want to do anything that you aren’t ready for.”

Her blue eyes were dark when she said, “Just… just kiss me.”

Jon crawled onto the bed atop her, careful to not press his body against hers, although every inch of him was begging him to. He leaned forward, his elbows digging into the mattress on either side of her, and lowered his mouth to hers once again.

It was electric, more powerful than anything Jon had ever felt.

Jon felt his jerkin loosen on his chest, exposing his shirt underneath. He ridded himself of the leather quickly, desperate to have his mouth on hers once more. She ran her nimble hands down the length of his arms, sighing into his mouth as her fingers danced over the ropes of muscles in his back. She tugged his shirt up, untucking it from his trousers, and then, her hands were underneath his shirt.

Jon felt goosebumps crawl after her cool fingers on his sides. He was quivering like a boy, then, like a man who had never had a woman in his arms before.

_Never Sansa_, he thought. _Never a woman like her_.

In an attempt at bravery, Jon slid his lips from hers and kissed down her jaw. She stiffened, but did not push him away, so he continued his journey. He pressed sloppy kisses to her neck before landing on the sensitive skin just underneath her earlobe. He sucked on the skin there gently, and was more than pleased when Sansa’s breath hitched and her hands curled around his forearms.

Her hands came back to his hair, holding his head in place as he worked at the skin of her neck. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the lemon and lavender scent of her hair. His hands itched to hold her, to trace over her sides, but he kept them on either side of her. He curled his fingers just right and could feel the auburn locks fanning around her head.

“Sansa,” he whispered into her neck before kissing the spot there once more, eliciting a shiver out of her. He knew he had probably left a spot, but he couldn’t seem to care, not in that moment. “Sansa,” he said again, not sure of what else to say, not sure that anything else mattered.

Sansa turned her face to his, her nose pressing into the skin of his cheek. Her mouth was at his ear, her breathing heavy.

“You are so beautiful, Sansa,” he whispered into her skin before nosing his way back to her lips.

“_Jon_,” Sansa said, sounding more like a moan that somewhat resembled his name. He kissed her again, not wanting to do anything else ever again that wasn’t kissing her.

It was then that there was a horrible, rasping knock at the door.

“YOUR GRACE!” a voice from the other side of the door called. “YOUR GRACE, COME QUICKLY! THEY’RE HERE!”

Jon jumped off Sansa as if he had been burned. Footsteps thudded away from the door. Jon’s vision was a blur as he watched Sansa stand and snatch his jerkin from the bed. She handed it to him, her hands shaking, and he took it, shrugging it on and clumsily tying the laces.

Jon’s chest was still heaving, his mind spinning, and he was not sure how he was meant to fight a war in such a state. He was positive that he would be no use outside, for the only thought that ran through his mind was of Sansa’s lips. He fumbled with the laces, his eyes burning as he tried not to picture the chaos that awaited him.

As he finished tying his jerkin, Jon looked up to see Sansa gazing at him intently. Her blue eyes were watery and her lips were swollen from kissing him, and Jon had never seen anyone look so beautiful. He knew, then, that he had to go fight, he had to win, so that he could come back to her.

There was no world for Jon Snow that did not also have Sansa Stark, and the darkness of the afterlife had no such beauty.

Jon stepped forward and pulled her into his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss into her hairline and forced himself to keep his tears at bay. He couldn’t cry; he was a king, and he was preparing to defend his home. He pressed his lips together tightly and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in the scent of her and relishing in the feel of her body in his arms. Sansa’s hands gripped his shoulders, and Jon heard her suck in a quick breath.

“Get to the library,” Jon commanded as he pulled back, cupping her chin so that she would look at him. Jon was so close that he could count the freckles on her nose; he promised himself that he would win the war just so he could come back to that very room and count every single one of those freckles. “That’s where we’ve sent all the women and children. You’ll be safe there.” Sansa nodded, her hands tight on his forearms. “Ghost, to me,” Jon commanded, and the large direwolf bounded to his side. Jon took a deep breath, his nerves almost getting the best of him. “Sansa, I-”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and chewing on her lower lip. “Come back to me. Then we can talk.”

Jon nodded his head once, slipped his hand behind her neck, and pulled her down for one last searing kiss.

And then he left her.

_SANSA_

Hands clasped tightly together, Sansa walked briskly through the corridor, towards the staircase that would lead her to the library. She had to put on a brave face, for her people were waiting for their Lady.

However, Sansa was positively riddled with nerves. Every inch of her was on fire from what had perspired between her and Jon, and her mind ran wild with anxious thoughts of what could be happening outside the castle’s walls. She could hear shouting and the clanging of metal on metal, but she did not allow herself to flinch.

What _had_ perspired between her and Jon?

He had kissed her first, but then she had kissed him back, fully and without hesitation. She had never been able to kiss anyone herself before, and the knowledge that she was in full control with him was almost too much. She had imagined kissing Jon before, admittedly, but no creation of her imagination could even compare to the real thing.

His lips were soft, so soft, and demanding at the same time. When his hands gripped her waist, she was not scared or disgusted; instead, something fiery lit within her belly at the feeling, at the realization that he _wanted_ her. He was strong yet gentle at the same time, his hands in her hair and his lips at her neck. She shivered then, wishing she could go back in time to feel it all over again.

She could not understand why kissing Jon had such an effect on her.

They were family, she knew, yet she had not felt one bit of guilt or repulsion while kissing him. She had felt a combination of things, a clash of contentment and peace and passion and lust and…

Sansa was afraid of what else she felt. She was afraid that it was all too much, that it would ruin whatever was beginning to blossom between her and Jon.

She rounded a corner and made her way to the staircase. Although she did not pray anymore, she found herself asking whatever deity that was listening to protect Jon and Arya and Bran and Theon, and her sworn sword, Brienne, for she did not know what she would do if something were to happen to any of them.

As Arya crossed her mind, Sansa felt a pang in her chest. What would her little sister think of what had happened between her and Jon? Would she be happy for them? Would she be revulsed? Would she be angry?

Bran would already know, wouldn’t he? What would he think?

Sansa shook her head frustratedly, desperate to banish any and all thoughts of kissing Jon before she made her way to her people. She lifted her chin, just like her mother had, and put on the face of a brave lady.

It was then that a hand shot out from the darkness, wrapping around her mouth and yanking her backwards. Another hand looped between her arms and pinned her hands behind her back.

Sansa struggled as she was dragged backwards, trying to make some sort of noise against the gloved hands, although none came. Fear almost crippled her, but she reminded herself to stay alert and to search for any sign of help. She looked wildly around her, although she could see nothing but the retreating stone walls of the corridor.

Before she could think of what to do next, another set of hands had blindfolded her, and another had gagged her.

She was then lifted off the ground and carried away.

_DAENERYS_

Dany sat atop Drogon, her hands clutching the ridges in his scaly back. She was quite a distance from the godswood, but not so far away that she could not make out the red leaves of the weirwoods and the ant-sized Ironborn soldiers. She took a deep breath – one of many she had taken in the last several moments – and attempted to steel her nerves once again.

She had faced witches, warlocks, slave owners, Dothraki horselords. She had walked through flames and came out on the other side untouched. She had done the impossible, yet fear ran heavily through her veins.

Dany had never seen a White Walker, or a wight. She had never heard of such a thing until Tyrion had explained the old tales to her. Until Jon Snow, Dany had no interest in bothering with such trivialities.

Now, she found herself mounted atop Drogon, fingers quivering in the slightest as she waited. Drogon’s side’s widened and shrunk as he breathed, and on either side of her, Rhaegal and Viserion were perched, smoke billowing out of their noses as they patiently waited.

From where she sat, she could see fire lighting the outside of Winterfell’s gates. In the eerie silence of the night, she could easily make out the sound of men yelling and swords meeting one another. She had heard the sound before, plenty of times, yet with the black backdrop of the night sky and the chill of the northern wind, Dany found the noise more disturbing than ever.

Briefly, she thought of the King in the North somewhere below, somewhere swinging that great Valyrian sword of his, his lips furled like a wolf. She thought of her hand, in the library with the women and children, his big eyes solemn as he listened, desperate to be of some help. She thought of Greyworm, the most loyal of her soldiers, leading his men in a fight that he couldn’t possibly understand. She thought of Varys and Missandei, with Tyrion, worrying for her safety.

She thought next of Ser Jorah, her gentle bear, fighting for his life, just as Jon was. She felt an ache in her chest as she realized it could be Jorah’s last night, and he was defending her, just as he always promised he would. He had told her as much the evening before, that he was not fighting for the North, but for his queen.

She hoped she would see him at the end of the evening, standing tall and strong.

_JON_

Winter was in full force, but sweat was rolling down Jon’s back as he ran through the courtyard. He slashed through a wight with a furious thrust of Longclaw, and at his side, Ghost leaped forward and knocked an oncoming wight out of Jon’s way. The direwolf tore at the ice zombie with his massive paws as Jon surged on.

He felt as if he had been fighting for hours. One moment, his nerves were buzzing and his heart was soaring at the feel of Sansa in his arms, and the next, he was outside Winterfell’s gates leading an army against wights.

The wights had made their way into the castle, and the fighting had spread all about the courtyard. From what Jon could tell, no wights had penetrated the castle yet, but he couldn’t be sure.

He cut through two wights at the same time, one coming close enough to scratch at the leather covering his chest. He had no time to think about what might have happened had the wight slice through him, for he could hear screeching on his right side, and he spun to take care of those wights, as well.

He caught sight of Jaime Lannister yards away from him, swinging his mighty Valyrian sword down on wight after wight. He was standing atop a pile of skeletal bodies, the mound growing bigger and bigger with each passing minute.

Jon had one constant thought:

_Ghost, Bran, Arya, Sansa. Ghost, Bran, Arya, Sansa. Ghost, Bran, Arya, Sansa. _

_Bran, Arya, Sansa. Bran, Arya, Sansa. Bran, Arya, Sansa._

_Arya, Sansa. Arya, Sansa. Arya, Sansa. _

_Sansa. Sansa. Sansa_.

He kept fighting, kept pushing, for he had to get to those four, had to ensure their safety, no matter the cost.

As he cut down another wight, he could see auburn hair in his mind’s eye. He could feel the gentle touch of slender fingers running through his curls as he twirled to cast another wight down. The feel of her lips still tingled against his, his heart hammering in his chest as he promised himself another kiss if he survived.

Overhead, he heard the screech of a dragon, and jumped out of the way just in time for Rhaegal to soar above and burn straight through a hoard of wights, just missing the castle’s wall. Next came Viserion, the beat of his wings causing the northern winds to double in force. A steady stream of fire belted out of his opened mouth, the heat licking Jon’s cheeks as it cut through several wights. Jon searched the sky for Daenerys, but found no third dragon.

He allowed himself a moment of relief as he realized she was still protecting Bran, where he had ordered her to be.

Jon lost count of how many wights came at him, and how many he ended. Each time he glanced around him, he would catch sight of someone else, another fighter. Brienne had joined Jaime, with Podrick at her side; Tormund had quit shouting but had not stopped fighting; Sandor Clegane, who had arrived a mere day ago, fought next to Beric Dondarrion, and near them lay a defeated Thoros of Myr. Jon tried desperately to find Arya, somewhere amongst the crowds, but he could not.

A jolt went through him as he realized what not seeing her could mean, but he pushed down the thought, desperate to keep fighting.

His chest heaved with effort as he pressed on. The wights were nowhere near tiring, yet Jon’s limbs were beginning to feel as if they were made of stones. Even Ghost, who Jon had never seen tired, was beginning to pant with exertion.

Four wights ran at him at once. Jon coughed once and raised Longclaw high above his head. He took a deep breath, prepared to face all four of them at once, and stepped forward.

And then, the wights fell to the ground, their bones falling apart as if someone had cut through them already. He stared down at the skeletons, his lips parted in wonder as he lowered Longclaw. Ghost came up beside him, crouching down to sniff at the bones that had just been moving.

As Jon straightened, he realized that he no longer heard the clang of metal on metal, the screeching of wights as they attacked. He couldn’t hear dragons screeching or the flap of their wings. Jon lifted his head and surveyed the courtyard.

The inside of Winterfell’s walls was filled with unmoving bones. They were scattered all over the snowy ground, and above them stood tired soldiers, their chests rising and falling in disbelief as they, too, looked around them.

The remaining soldiers stood awkwardly and awaited another attack; how could it be that all of the wights had died, just like that? What had happened?

Slowly but surely, soldier after soldier sheathed their swords and drug themselves towards the castle, seeking rest. Jon stood dumbly and watched them pass him, their heads hung and their arms dangling limply at their sides. Not one of them lacked blood and dirt, the two coating their armor and faces.

A hand laid heavily on Jon’s shoulder. He turned and came face-to-face with Ser Davos, the older man’s eyes tired and heavy. He had a slash across his cheek, and his leathers were slick with blood and sweat.

“It’s over,” he said. “Get some sleep, before you fall over right here.” His voice was hoarse and he was breathing loudly; Jon wondered whether he was hiding any injuries.

Jon, himself, had suffered little to no injuries. He was far too quick to be caught by a wight, although one did catch him upside the head, leaving him with a pounding headache and a bloody ear.

Jon peered around Davos, scanning the courtyard for the four names that had been in his head for hours. He saw no sight of Arya or Bran, but Ghost was still by his side, one of his ears ripped and bloodied. Sansa, however, had been sent to the library, and since there seemed to have been no penetration into the castle, Jon knew she was safe inside.

He nodded once to Davos, placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder, and turned away from him. “Ghost, to me,” he said, the rough sound of his voice surprising him. Ghost trotted next to him.

The walk to his chamber came and went. He heard the mumbles of, “Your Grace,” as he passed, but he didn’t respond to any of them. Jon didn’t even realize he had made it to his chamber until he had slumped atop his mattress, his shoulders and legs throbbing from exertion. As soon as his dirt-streaked cheek hit his pillows, he entered a deep, undisturbed slumber.

Jon did not know how long he slept for. It could have been hours, or days, for all he knew. He did not dream; he did not wake. He simply slept.

He was awoken by the sound of a commanding, sharp voice and fists pounding on his back.

“Jon!” the voice called. “_Jon_! Wake up, you’ve got to wake up!”

One of Jon’s eyes opened slowly, blinking into focus. Arya came into view, and Jon sat straight up, his head dizzy from the quick movement.

She was perfectly fine, although one of her eyes had been blackened. Other than that, she had bathed and was wearing clean leathers, her hair tied back like her father used to do to his own. Her Stark eyes were wide and wild, her face stricken with a fear that Jon had never seen before. She stepped back when he sat up, her eyes watery with tears, but said tears were overshadowed by anger and dread.

“What?” Jon asked, his voice so gruff that he hardly recognized it. “What is it?”

“Sansa,” Arya said, and Jon stood. At the name, his heart sprung into overdrive, his senses on high alert. He hadn’t even thought to check on her, to make sure she hadn’t suffered any injuries on her way to the library. He had been so stupid to blindly trust that she’d been safe, but the wights hadn’t gotten into the castle… “She’s gone.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another super-sonic travel chapter. 
> 
> Thanks again for all the encouraging comments! It truly means so much to me to see such kind words left under my work. I read each one, and each one makes me smile.

_DAENERYS _

Dany walked swiftly to the council room. Her right leg, having just caught the tip of an arrow while she had been atop Drogon, ached as she moved, and she had acquired an unsightly limp. Maester Tarly had taken care of any danger the wound posed, but that did not mean it didn’t hurt.

The battle had only been two days ago.

As Dany made her way to the council room, she tried to not miss the sound of heavy footsteps next to her, and the rattle of a sword swinging from a hip. She bit her lip as she walked, the absence of Ser Jorah almost too much, too fresh. Tears welled in her eyes once again, but she did not cry; she would not let herself cry.

Jorah had lost his life fighting the Army of the Dead, but most importantly, he had lost his life protecting Dany. When the arrow caught her leg, she had tumbled off Drogon from the sheer force of it. Luckily, Drogon had been on the ground, so she hadn’t fallen dangerously far, and the snow had broken much of her fall. However, the wights had been on her in an instant, so close that their screeches rattled her ribcage.

Jorah had been at her side immediately.

He had plowed through the wights on a big, white mare. He eventually leapt off the horse to fight on his own two feet. He kept Dany behind him, so that she would not be attacked. She tried her best to use what weapons she could find to fight off any wight that came for them, but Jorah was always one step ahead, even as the wights pierced through his armor with their swords.

At last, all the wights had fallen, all at once, and Jorah had followed them.

Dany had never known such pain.

The next day, the bodies were gathered and laid upon a funeral pier. Dany had stayed for as long as she could manage, until the sorrow and grief had been all too much and she had retired to her temporary chamber once again.

Jon had not attended; no one had awoken him. Dany assumed that was what this council meeting had been called for.

She settled her hand on the door handle, and before she opened the door, a thought came to her.

Now that the battle was over, the South was left to be dealt with. Jon had promised to help her march to King’s Landing and defeat Cersei, but he had not promised to give up the North, which was hers (_his_).

Dany sighed, steeled herself, and entered the council room.

“We cannot spare our men for one person!” Greyworm boomed in his strangled accent. He was leaning forward, his fists against the table-turned-map, his eyebrows scrunched downwards in frustration. “We do not care about your politics, only what concerns the Queen.”

“This isn’t politics,” Jon growled from across the table. His cheeks were red and his eyes dangerous. The door shuddered closed behind Dany, but the men paid her no mind. “This is more important than that.”

“To you,” Greyworm spat. “Not to us.”

“Torgo Nudho,” Dany said gently, yet loud enough to catch his attention. Greyworm immediately straightened, placing his hands behind his back and turning to face Dany.

“My queen,” Greyworm said.

Next to him, Missandei bowed slightly and said softly, “My queen.” Varys and Tyrion did the same.

The northerners – Jon, Arya, Ser Davos, the great big wildling man, Brienne of Tarth, and Theon Greyjoy – did not so much as turn their heads to look at Dany. Jaime Lannister sat next to Tyrion, his head down, refusing to acknowledge either side. Dany sighed at the sight of the man, wishing she could have him thrown in a prison cell.

“What is the meaning of this meeting?” Dany asked, directing her question towards the King in the North.

Jon turned slowly from Greyworm. His eyes were bloodshot, lips drawn, looking the picture of an angry wolf. His voice did not waver when he said, “We need to march South. Now.”

“_Now_?” Dany repeated. She stepped forward, at the end of the table, and scanned the map before her. “We’ve just had a battle two days ago. Neither of our armies are healed nor rested enough to go now.” Jon said nothing. “I do appreciate your honor to the promise you made me, but now is not the time.”

“Sansa has been taken,” Jon said.

Dany blanched, blinking and reeling backwards. She opened and closed her mouth in a poor attempt to speak, to say something, but no words came to her.

The Lady of Winterfell had been taken from her home, right from under their noses.

“When was she last seen?” Dany asked calmly, folding her hands together.

Jon cleared his throat and looked away from Dany when he answered, “Just before the battle started. She never made it to the library.”

“Perhaps… if she never made it to the library…” Dany started, afraid of how Jon might react if she were to speak life into such a horrible thought.

“She’s alive,” Tyrion spoke up. When Dany peered at her hand, she could not make out the emotions on his face. He had spoken of Sansa before, his second wife, but she had only been a child when they had been together; strangely enough, Tyrion looked quite bothered by her disappearance. “She’s been taken. Cersei had men sneak into the castle while we were preparing for battle.”

“How do you know for sure?” Dany asked.

Tyrion said nothing, only glanced to where Jaime sat.

“She planned to take Sansa,” Jaime admitted, his head still hung. “She wanted her for what happened to Joffrey, but she needed her so that Jon would bend the knee to get her back.”

“You knew about this?” Dany hissed, narrowing her eyes at the golden man.

“I did,” Jaime answered plainly. Brienne flinched.

“And why, may I ask, did you conveniently keep from telling anyone?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t believe she’d actually go through with it,” he confessed, and this time, Tyrion flinched.

“You know her better than that,” Tyrion hissed.

Dany was fuming. “Perhaps your loyalties lie with the South after all,” she snapped. “I should’ve burned alive once you stepped foot in Winterfell for all you’ve done.”

“Perhaps you should have,” Jaime mocked, straightening in his chair. “My loyalties do not lie with the South or the North. I needed to stay alive, and so I fought for the living. Now the battle is over, and I am again without loyalties to either side.”

“That makes you in open rebellion against my cause,” Dany said unblinkingly, tightening her clasped hands.

“We’ve no time for this!” Jon shouted, slamming his hand against the tabletop. The pieces on the map shook and clattered together, causing Missandei to jump. “We must leave immediately.”

“We can’t,” Dany countered.

“We can and we will,” Jon said. “You have no right to come into _my _kingdom and tell me what I can and cannot do with _my_ army.” He made a disgusted face and added, “Not to mention the fact that you held a funeral concerning _my_ people and chose to not wake me.”

“Until Cersei is defeated, your army is _my army_,” Dany reminded him, ignoring his added statement. She had known it was a bad idea to let him sleep, but she had wanted to ignore the fact that he was the true heir for as long as she could. “We’re not leaving. We must regroup and plan.”

“While we sit here and debate, Sansa sits at the feet of Cersei Lannister, bearing who knows what.” Jon stepped forward, Arya and her thin sword at his side. “We march at nightfall.”

“March all you like,” Dany said, “but my men stay put. We don’t even know if Cersei truly has her or not.”

“Your Grace-” Tyrion tried.

“Enough,” Dany commanded, and the room hushed. She glared at Jon, the heat of the dragon coursing through her. “My army will stay put until they have healed. Then, and only then, will we march on the South.” She looked at Greyworm. “In the meantime, have Jaime Lannister escorted to the cells for his inability to choose a side. Perhaps some time alone will change his mind.”

Jaime laughed emptily as Greyworm snatched him by the shoulders and pulled him up out of his chair.

Jon stared forward until Dany thought his eyes might dry out. For the first time, she was afraid of him, afraid of what he might do. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arya grabbed him by the elbow. Jon looked down at her, and the two shared an unspoken conversation.

Finally, Jon said, “That’s enough for today.”

Jon and Arya exited the room before anyone could say a word. Dany watched with bated breath as his people followed him, one by one.

_SANSA_

As soon as she opened her eyes, she wished she was asleep again. Sansa’s head felt as if it’d been split in two; the headache she had was worse than any one she had experienced in her almost twenty years.

She forced herself to keep her eyes open to survey her surroundings, even though the harsh colors made her eyes burn. The room was highly decorative, most everything either gold or crimson. Sansa thought she might have seen the room before, but for some reason, she could not recall. Although her limbs were sore, she pushed herself up and realized she was in a bed.

Sansa tried to bring her right hand up to rub her temples, but she could not; her right hand was shackled to the bedpost.

Sansa stared dumbly down at the chain around her wrist, horrid memories of being bound flooding her mind. She shivered at the thought, but did not allow the memories to overtake her. She tried to yank free, tried to use her fingernails to pick into the lock, but nothing worked. The only thing she accomplished was worsen the state of the skin on her wrist.

She dropped her right hand back onto the mattress and peered around the room once more as the fog lifted from her brain. The hearth, the table, the vanity, the tub…

Sansa jolted as she realized she was in her old bedchamber, her prison cell when she had been a captive in King’s Landing.

Her throat went dry as she stared at the tub, the feel of untrustworthy handmaidens scrubbing the blood from her back ghosting across her skin. She flinched at the thoughts and involuntarily curled back into her bed, desperate to hide herself, to will herself anywhere else but where she was. A sickness like no other unfurled in her belly, and Sansa recognized the feeling as terror.

True, unadulterated terror.

All at once, Sansa could see the Sept of Baelor, the screaming crowd, the look on Joffrey’s face as he commanded Ser Ilyn to bring him her father’s head. The images shifted to that of the throne room, and Sansa was on her knees, blinking up at the monster king, begging his mercy as his so-called knights ripped at her gown and beat her bloody. She could still hear Joffrey telling his guards to hit her, Tyrion telling her that her mother and brother had died, the Hound telling her that all men were killers.

Tears stung her eyes as she attempted to steady her breathing and block out all of the horrible memories that had begun to replay in her mind.

The door to her chamber opened, then, and in stepped an older, short man with slick, grey hair that curled around the nape of his neck. He wore a black cloak and a maester’s chain; Sansa did not recognize him from her time in King’s Landing, although it did not surprise her that the old maester had been replaced. She assumed that the new queen had replaced almost every post in the castle.

The maester shuffled forward, closing the door softly behind him. Sansa sat still, not daring to move, and watched as he neared her. He did not look at her until he made it all the way to her bedside.

“Good morning,” the maester said, his voice raspy. He was not at all as friendly-looking as Sam was, back in Winterfell. “I’m here to see to your head.” He smiled crookedly; it made Sansa’s skin crawl. “I wasn’t expecting to see you awake.”

Sansa said nothing.

The maester reached for her head, and Sansa reacted involuntarily, jerking her head away from his touch and recoiling into the sheets.

“Easy, now, dear,” the maester crooned. His breath smelled of acid.

“Why am I in chains?” Sansa asked, and the hoarseness of her own voice surprised her.

The maester glanced down at her shackled wrist. “So that you do not attempt to escape, of course,” he answered. He poked at her wrist, and the chain straightened as Sansa tried to pull her hand away from him. “You’ll need to quit fidgeting with it, or else you’ll ruin your pretty skin.” His bony fingers trailed the mangled inside of her wrist.

“Who are you?” Sansa asked.

The measter lifted his head to peer at her. “My name is Qyburn,” he said. “I’m the maester here in the castle, and the Hand of the Queen.”

Sansa’s eyes dropped to the pin secured onto his cloak. “The Queen,” she sat softly, the blood draining from her face. She swallowed thickly, blood rushing loudly in her ears, dizzying her. “She… she brought me here. Why?”

“That is not for me to share with you, my dear,” Qyburn said, one of his wispy eyebrows quirking. “Now, let me see that head of yours.”

Sansa had no choice but to settle back against the pillows and allow Qyburn to tilt her head towards him. He fingered a surprisingly tender spot on the right side of her head; when he made contact with the spot, she hissed and flinched.

“Healing nicely, my dear,” Qyburn said, pressing into the spot and causing Sansa to grit her teeth together to avoid crying. “Your head still aches, no?”

“Yes, it does,” Sansa ground out as Qyburn pulled away from her head.

“That should stop within the next day or so,” he said, and he reached into his cloak. He withdrew a small vial, filled with a murky green liquid. “Drink this. It should help with the pain.” Sansa stared blankly at him. Did he think her an idiot? “It’s not poison, my dear,” Qyburn added, as if he had read her thoughts. “The Queen would not have you brought all this way only to poison you upon your arrival.” He smiled crookedly again. “I trust you know that.”

Sansa blinked once in understanding and took the vial from Qyburn’s old, wrinkled hands. She downed the liquid without a second thought, knowing in her heart that there was no way she’d been stolen from her own home only to be poisoned.

“Some handmaidens will come in to dress you,” Qyburn said, and for the first time, Sansa glanced down at herself. She was in only a shift, her own; she had been stripped of everything else she had been wearing. Desperate to cover herself, she snatched the sheets with her left hand and yanked them up against her chest, her cheeks burning. Qyburn said nothing more, only bowed and exited the room.

Within seconds, the door opened once more, and four handmaidens bustled in, along with a very large, very burly man dressed in Lannister armor. Her visitors said nothing, only walked towards her briskly with clothes in their arms.

The knight unlocked Sansa’s chain and yanked her to standing position. Sansa wobbled as she stood, her legs unsteady, and winced as he pulled on her arm to keep her upright. She tried her best to shy away from his prying, green eyes; he smiled sickeningly down at her, his lips chapped and ugly. He held on tightly to her shoulders as the handmaidens fluttered around her, dressing her quickly.

Sansa had not been dressed in years. Once she had returned to Winterfell and began wearing corsets and her long, flowing dresses once again, she had taken to doing it all herself, for she found it silly and uncomfortable to continue letting other women dress her when she could do it herself. Brienne would simply help her with tying the laces she could not reach.

Once Sansa was dressed, trapped in a corset tighter than any one she’d even worn, the knight led her to a chair. He pushed down on her shoulders, making her sit. He snatched both of her hands and chained them behind her back. As he was working, the handmaidens came around to the back of her and began to brush through her hair, not gently. Sansa flinched as the women tugged on her hair and the knight tugged on her chains. She looked down at her lap, grimacing at the pink, lacy dress she’d been forced into. It was all too familiar, the summer color of the gown and the handmaidens picking at her relentlessly.

Soon, she was left alone at last, chained to a chair and more helpless than she had been in quite some time. She sat, her back to the door, and stared at the bars that had been put in her window. 

Sansa wondered what had transpired in Winterfell. Had the Army of the Dead been defeated? Was Jon okay? What about Arya, and Bran, and Brienne? What of the Dragon Queen and her people?

Sansa closed her eyes and imagined that they were all okay, that they had survived and that they were celebrating their victory. She thought of Jon, and wondered what he was doing at that very moment. Was he celebrating with the others? Was he sleeping, or planning to march south with Daenerys? Would he come for her?

A pang of fear shot through Sansa.

Robb hadn’t come for her; what made Jon any different?

But Jon _was_ different.

Sansa could easily picture the look on Jon’s face as he hovered over her, staring down at her as if she was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. A jolt swept through her at the memory of his lips on hers, the tingling sensation it had sent to the very tips of her fingertips. At least, if she were to never see him again, she had the lasting memory of finally knowing what it was like to kiss him and to be held in his arms.

The door to Sansa’s chamber opened slowly, and a voice emerged.

“Hello, little dove. It has been so long.”

_JON_

Jon stood stiffly next to Bran’s bed. His cousin’s eyes were rolled back into his head, and he was somewhere far away, somewhere Jon and Arya could not follow. Arya stood next to Jon, her thin arms folded across her chest, her lips drawn downwards in a permanent pout.

“Sam is packing supplies for us,” Jon said. Arya did not respond, but she nodded. “Enough for a journey to King’s Landing, nothing more.”

“That’s all we need,” Arya said. She shifted from foot to foot impatiently. “It’s not a short ride, I’m afraid. And we’ll need to stop for the horses to eat and rest.”

“Be quicker if we had something faster than a horse.” Daenerys’s dragons popped into Jon’s mind. Perhaps, since he was a Targaryen, he could approach one of them, maybe even one would allow him to… “What if-”

“Are you stupid or mad?” Arya asked, snapping Jon out of his thoughts. The look on her face told him that she knew exactly what she was thinking. “Or both?”

“You’re right,” Jon groaned, and he ran a hand through his hair. He was growing increasingly frustrated as the minutes ticked by, and his frustration was only ignited by the fear he felt deep within his chest. Sansa was all alone, without an ally, without a protector. She was a strong woman, sure – he felt he knew this perhaps more than anyone – but she was not a fighter. “What’s taking him so long?”

“Relax.”

“_Relax_?” Jon repeated, swiveling to study Arya. She looked at him incredulously. “Are you not worried?”

“Of course, I’m worried, you idiot,” Arya snapped, her Stark eyes flashing dangerously. It was strange for Jon to see Arya so protective of Sansa; apparently, sometime since her return, the two had created quite an intense bond. “But you’ve got to keep your head straight.” She grabbed his forearm forcefully. “You’re all I’ve got, and I’m all you’ve got. We have to stay grounded.”

Jon sighed heavily and nodded his agreement.

He and Arya had agreed to go after Sansa alone, just the two of them, and Ghost. Jon knew that Daenerys was right, that he had pledged his men to her until after Cersei had been defeated. He would be breaking his oath if he took his men with him before she was ready to march. However, there was no way in hell Jon was going to sit back and wait while Sansa was in danger; luckily, Arya felt much the same way. Also, it being just the two of them, he gathered that they could sneak in and out of the castle much quicker and easier, rather than bring an entire army with them.

At last, Bran sighed, and his eyes rolled back into place. He looked to Jon, a troubled wrinkle in his forehead.

“She’s in King’s Landing, as you suspected,” he said. “She’s with the queen now.”

“Cersei,” Arya all but growled. “What does she want with Sansa?”

“I cannot read minds,” Bran reminded them yet again, “only see events that are taking place.”

“Is she okay? Is she hurt?” Jon asked.

Bran shook his head. “No, not from what I can tell,” he answered, “but she’s bound to a chair, wearing southern clothing.”

"Shit," Jon muttered, bile rising in his throat at the thought of Sansa in chains. She was too beautiful, too gentle, too kind… He could not think of a person less deserving of shackles. “Alright,” he said, as if to steady himself. “We can leave as soon as Sam is done packing for us.” He laid a hand on Bran’s shoulder and looked deeply into his once-brother’s eyes. “Thank you, Bran.”

“Of course,” Bran said. “Please return her safely, Jon. She is my sister, after all. I love her very much.”

Even though it was said in that horrible monotone voice that Bran had adopted, Jon knew that every word came straight from Bran’s heart. Jon kissed him on the forehead, holding him steadily by the neck.

“I promise, Bran,” Jon said.

Arya bid Bran goodbye, as well, and the two made their way into the corridor.

“This could go horribly wrong, you know,” Arya said as they walked towards the maester’s room. Even though she had grown so much since Jon had bid her goodbye all those years ago, she still had that same biting, challenging lilt to her voice. “The two of us against the Lannister army.”

“Who says we have to go against the whole army?”

“Have you got a way around it?”

Jon squinted in thought, his brain dulling any reasonable idea and focusing on the fact that Sansa was in danger; to him, that was all that mattered. “No one in King’s Landing knows our faces,” he said. “It shouldn’t be too hard for us to sneak in, although we’ll need to change out of our leathers and into something more southern.”

“That much is obvious,” Arya said, her left hand rested on the pommel of Needle. She walked as if she was on a mission, her thick eyebrows creased as the gears turned inside her head. “Getting into the castle will be the hard part.”

Jon said nothing; he had no advice to give.

Before Jon and Arya had reached Sam’s door, the maester himself came tumbling out with a bag in each hand. He handed one bag to Arya, and then turned to Jon.

“I’m not even going to try and talk you out of this,” Sam said. “I know it wouldn’t work.”

“You’ve talked me out of plenty of bad ideas before,” Jon quipped lightheartedly, snatching the bag out of Sam’s outstretched hand.

“Aye, I have,” Sam said, “but I’ve no right to talk you out of this one.” Jon slung the bag on his shoulder and peered at Sam questioningly. Sam dropped his eyes awkwardly. “I… I know how you feel about her. I know you have to bring her back.” Jon bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from being overwhelmed with emotion. “Just… well, be careful out there,” Sam said, his big eyes welling up with tears.

Jon wrapped Sam in a tight, brief hug, and as they embraced, Jon knew he would never know a truer friend than Samwell Tarly.

“Thank you, Sam,” Jon said, not knowing what else he should say. Sam nodded once, overcome with emotion himself, and retreated into his room, the door clanging shut behind him.

It was then that he felt an iron grip on his forearm, and turned to face Arya, her face sterner than he had ever seen it. “I have an idea,” she said, “but you’re going to have to trust me.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some violence and mention of sexual assault
> 
> Thank you all for your kind comments!

_SANSA_

Cersei sat across from Sansa in a similar chair, only the queen’s hands were unbound. One was idly holding a filled wineglass, and the other sat neatly in her lap. Her dress was black and metallic, with breastplate armor as if she expected to be attacked at any moment. Her hair was short, like a man’s might be, and Sansa wondered what had made her decide to cut all that beautiful blond hair. The crown atop her head shimmered every time she moved, almost as if it was begging to be admired.

She was the picture of regality, sitting across from Sansa, her back as straight as ever and her lips turned upwards just enough to suggest a smirk. Sansa did not feel the same chill down her spine as she once had, long ago, upon looking at the queen. She was afraid, of course, but she no longer cowered when the other woman was around.

Sansa did not back down to anyone, not anymore.

“You’ve grown, little dove,” Cersei said as she sipped lightly at her wine. Sansa said nothing in response, merely stared blankly at the queen. “Still so beautiful. That much has stayed the same.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa said, remembering that a lady’s armor was courtesy.

“You look so like your mother,” Cersei went on. Sansa set her jaw. “That long, red hair and those deep blue eyes. Even as a child, you were said to be the most beautiful girl in all of Westeros. Did you know that?”

“I was told, from time to time,” Sansa responded honestly. Compliments on her beauty had thrilled her once, but they no longer had an effect on her, not truly. She had come to learn that a person was more than what they appeared to be, and even the most beautiful people could be cruel.

“I envied that about you,” Cersei admitted, her cat-like eyes raking up and down Sansa’s body. She felt squeamish under her gaze, but she did not dare flinch. “I wanted to be the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros, and here a little gem comes from the North to steal my prize. You weren’t even smart enough to appreciate it.”

“I appreciated compliments more than most, Your Grace,” Sansa replied.

“Such a dreamer.” She tilted her head questioningly. “Not anymore, though, that much is clear. You’re no longer the girl whose head is full of songs.”

Sansa steeled herself. “No longer, Your Grace.”

“That’s good to know,” Cersei said, half-laughing. “I would hate to have an idiot for company while we wait for someone to rescue you.”

“What makes you so sure someone will come for me?”

Cersei did not laugh this time. “I am not stupid, little dove,” she said. “You are the Lady of Winterfell, the eldest daughter of the honorable Eddard Stark and the lovely Catelyn Stark.” Sansa did not like Cersei’s condescending tone. “You are a _prize_.” She sipped her wine. “Someone will come for you, if not the King himself.”

Sansa’s heart jumped into her throat; she hoped Cersei did not see her reaction.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Sansa said. “To force Jon to give up the North.”

“You’re quicker than you used to be, I’ll give you that,” Cersei said, a dainty smile on her lips. “Yes, little dove, my hope is that the King in the North will bend the knee and give up the North in exchange for his darling sister.” Sansa kept her face free of emotion at the word sister. Cersei chuckled. “Excuse me, _half_-sister.”

“Jon will never give up the North,” Sansa tried, even though she knew he was just reckless enough to do just that if it meant saving her.

“I do believe your brother will prove to be much the family man, as his father was,” Cersei said. “Otherwise…” She sighed. “I _am_ sorry, little dove, but if he does not bend the knee, I’m afraid it will not be pretty for you.”

“You seem to have forgotten that I was a prisoner of yours before,” Sansa started, “and your hope was for my brother to rescue me, then, too.” Sansa tilted her head slightly in challenge. “He never came.”

“No, he did not,” she agreed. Cersei downed her wine. “But your stupid mother sent my brother back in exchange for you.”

“The kingslayer,” Sansa said, hoping to strike a nerve on the topic of Jaime. “He’s alive, you know. In the North. On Jon’s side.”

“He’s not.”

“He is,” Sansa pressed. The slightest bit of annoyance had been detected in Cersei’s tone, and Sansa found herself thrilled at the idea of getting under the other woman’s skin. “In fact, he spends quite a lot of time with one of my ladies-”

“Ser Loren.”

It happened so fast that Sansa barely had time to react. One minute, she was testing Cersei, and the next minute, a knight who she did not know was present was standing in front of her and had smacked her round the head. Sansa’s ears rung with the force of the blow, and she felt blood trickle from her nose as she sat, dazed. She coughed once, closing her eyes to stop the spinning of the room.

She could not remember the last time she had been hit. It must have been before escaping Ramsay, but she could not remember specifically. It still felt the same, however; it still felt shameful and demeaning.

“You will _not_ speak to me in such a way,” Cersei commanded, the only hint of her frustration being the pinkening of her cheeks. “Is that understood?” Sansa said nothing, only stared at her feet. “Ser Loren.” Again, Sansa felt his heavy hand smack right across her cheek. She cried out that time, without meaning to, for she hated giving Cersei the pleasure. Her ears still rang, and her skin tingled from the knight’s blow. “Is that understood?”

Sansa lifted her head.

_I am not afraid. I am a wolf of Winterfell. I am not afraid. I am a wolf of Winterfell._

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Cersei said, standing and rounding the table to pour herself more wine. As she did, she said, “Little dove, would you care for some wine? I seem to have forgotten my manners. You are a guest, after all. You should be offered all of the finest wine your little belly can hold.”

Sansa wanted to scream at her, to tell her that she was not a little dove, not anymore, but she kept her courtesy. “No, thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa answered, although she knew the wine would help with the pain in her head.

“Suit yourself,” Cersei said. She went to make her way back to her seat, but something on Sansa caught her eye. Her eyes brightened in delight, and she rushed forward. “What do we have here?” she asked, pressing two fingers into the delicate skin underneath Sansa’s ear. Immediately, Sansa’s skin flushed red at the memory of Jon’s lips there, so achingly sweet. “I do believe I know what this is.” She pulled back, her smile sickening. “The little dove has a love mark. Have you taken a lover?”

Sansa fought down her blush, the memory of Jon all too vivid. “I do not see how that concerns you, Your Grace.”

Cersei laughed. “Oh, it’s none of my concern, truly. I just cannot fathom you letting anyone between your legs after my brother has had you.”

Sansa blanched involuntarily. “My marriage to Tyrion was never consummated.”

At this, Cersei raised an eyebrow. “My brother never forced his little worm into you?”

Sansa did not react to her crude language; she had heard much worse, even during her time in King’s Landing as a child. “Tyrion was gentle,” Sansa said. “He was kind. He never forced anything onto me.”

“That does surprise me,” Cersei said. “Tyrion was never one to turn down a pretty face and a slender pair of legs.” She took another sip of wine, thinking. “What about Roose Bolton’s bastard?”

Sansa swallowed roughly. “What about him?”

“Did he?” Cersei asked, and then clarified, “Force himself on you, that is.”

Sansa’s skin crawled at the mention of Ramsay. All lovely memories of Jon slipped away as Ramsay’s haunting, blue eyes came into her mind. “The marriage was consummated, if that is what you’re asking.”

“I’m _asking_ if he _forced_ himself on you,” Cersei repeated, and this time, Sansa flinched. Cersei nodded, going for another drink, seeming to have received the answer she’d wanted. She shook her head in disdain as she lowered her glass and peered down at Sansa. “I cannot imagine what scars you bear underneath your gown. You must be marred for life. I’m curious…” Cersei glanced behind Sansa and said, “Ser Loran, if you will.”

Before Sansa could recoil, the knight was in front of her again, ripping the neckline of the dress so that the tops of her breasts were bared, right above her corset. Sansa’s cheeks flamed red as the skin came into view; luckily, the knight retreated behind her once more.

Cersei stepped closer to Sansa, pressing a slender finger into the flesh of her left breast. Sansa knew there was a scar there – she knew where every scar was located – but she refused to look down at it. Cersei traced the scar, her gaze curious, but fortunately, she did not ask Sansa specifically how she had acquired the scar.

“Poor thing,” Cersei said, although she did not sound sincere in the slightest. She stepped back, tilting her head and peering at Sansa’s face instead. “Funny, I was once jealous of your pretty skin. So soft and delicate, _beautiful_ and ivory. Now it’s… ruined.”

Cersei took her seat once more.

“You needn’t feel sorry for me, Your Grace,” Sansa said, gaining a bit of courage. “I took care of my husband.”

“Yes, I was told he died when you and your brother took Winterfell. I don’t suppose it should surprise me that you did it yourself,” Cersei said. “Was it strange for you? Being married to the son of the man who murdered your brother.” Before Sansa could answer, Cersei went on, “What is it the northerners say? The North remembers. Yes, that’s it.” She leaned forward daringly, the wineglass teetering dangerously in her hand. “Do they, little dove? Do the northerners remember what happened to your brother and mother on that night all those years ago?”

“They do.”

“Yes, I’d assume so.” Cersei relaxed in her chair, but Sansa remained straight. Cersei laughed, “Oh, little dove. Anger is such a peculiar emotion on your pretty face.” Her smile faded. “My Myrcella was never angry. She did find herself upset, from time to time. Her little face would screw up and her lips would pout. Tommen was much the same, the little prince. Joffrey, however…” Cersei’s eyes took on a far-off gaze, making Sansa uncomfortable. “Joffrey was often angry.”

“I’m quite familiar with your son’s anger, Your Grace,” Sansa said bitingly.

Cersei’s head snapped around to glare at Sansa; she had apparently struck a nerve. She braced herself for another blow from the knight, but Cersei spoke instead. “I once felt something for you. Pity, perhaps. Maybe even motherly affection, had you not been so ignorant. What Joffrey did to you was never my doing. I never wanted him to harm you or humiliate you as he did. Now, I’m not so sure I harbor the same feelings as I once did. I would kill you myself, right now, if it meant I could have my boy back.” Cersei stood, tall and threatening. “Do you remember, little dove? Do you remember what happened to my son?”

Sansa did not look away from Cersei’s glare. “I just assured you, Your Grace, that northerners do not forget easily.” She swallowed, bracing herself. “I cannot say I was displeased with the events that transpired on your son’s wedding day.”

Cersei marched forward, and this time, the blow came from her own hand.

Blood trickled down Sansa’s cheek from one of Cersei’s rings. The slap hurt, very much, but it only angered Sansa.

“Stupid child,” Cersei snapped. “I thought I taught you not to speak.”

“You did,” Sansa responded, “and Joffrey taught me to lie, and Lord Baelish taught me to watch, and Ramsay taught me to survive.” She tilted her head once more in challenge and said, hearing the rush of her own northern blood in her ears, “I am not your little dove. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I will be treated as such.”

Cersei laughed emptily, her eyes a fearsome storm of rage. “Well, then, _little_ _wolf_, I do hope someone comes to rescue you soon, or we’ll have to see if your Stark blood runs the same as your father’s.” She turned her back to Sansa and, finally, made her way towards the door, her knight following close behind. Before she exited, she twisted to look at Sansa once more. “Perhaps your northern lover will come to rescue you.” With a cruel smile, she exited, the door clanging shut behind her.

_Perhaps he will_.

_DAENERYS_

Dany sat at the high table with her fingers curled tightly around a cup full of stale ale. Tyrion sat to her right, and to her left, Missandei. She watched as the northerners ate grumpily and eyed her suspiciously.

Since Jon’s departure, Dany had not been treated as politely as she had expected. The northerners had taken to behaving as if she was the one who’d sent their king away, or kidnapped their lady, when she was the one who commanded Jon to stay.

“Perhaps we should send some men after him,” Tyrion said from behind a large mug. Dany fought the urge to roll her eyes. Any chance he could, Tyrion brought up Jon. “When they find him, they could persuade him to come back, or even accompany him-”

“_Accompany_ him?” Dany snapped. She turned her violet, burning eyes on her hand, who didn’t shrink away from her. “He disobeyed my orders.”

“He is not under your rule,” Tyrion said.

“He is,” Dany said. “And without him here, the North is mine.” She straightened in her seat. “I don’t see why him being gone is such a bad thing.”

“He will come back,” Tyrion warned, “with a vengeance, no doubt.”

At that, Dany pushed her chair back and stood, causing the men below her to glance up nervously. She left the high table and marched out of the room, heading directly for her temporary bedchamber. She could hear murmured whispers following her, and she was not stupid enough to think the northerners were not whispering about her.

Once she had made it to her bedchamber, she ripped her dress off and tugged a dress robe on, pouring herself a glass of wine. She could feel the frustration and anger beginning to permanently settle in her chest. She took to undoing her hair, giving her something to keep her mind busy.

Everything she’d ever worked for, suffered for, strived for, was being torn away from her. If Dany could not take the throne, then what could she do?

She supposed she could travel back to Mereen, rule their as she once had. She had been happy there, with Daario and her people. But Mereen wasn’t what she wanted; what she wanted was being pried away from her, bit by bit, little by little, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Dany could not find it in her heart to understand what Jon Snow was doing. He abandoned his people; what kind of a king did such a thing? The North could be attacked any moment by Cersei, and their king would too far away to help.

Jon Snow was selfish, she decided. He left without so much as a word of farewell, or helpful instructions on how to deal with the northerners in his stead. No, the second Sansa had gone missing, Jon Snow had taken off. He had abandoned the North for a woman, a woman who seemed to dismiss his affections.

Did that make him selfish, or a fool?

Or was he only a man?

A knock on the door pulled Dany out of her thoughts, and she cleared her throat before saying, “Come in.”

In stepped Missandei, still dressed in her dark blue gown. Her thick eyebrows were pulled together in concern, which only frustrated Dany further.

“You left the feast early, Your Grace,” Missandei commented.

Dany turned from her and took another sip of wine. “Yes, well,” she said stupidly.

“Do you wish to talk?”

“No, thank you, Missandei,” Dany snapped. She rarely found herself angry with the other girl, but that evening, she couldn’t help but be annoyed. “I do not need to hear someone else chastise me for not helping Jon Snow, especially not you.”

“I did not wish to talk about Jon Snow.”

“Then who, might I ask, did you mean for me to talk about?”

“Ser Jorah.”

Dany froze.

All of the frustration, anger, and helplessness melted away at one name. Dany set her wine glass aside and folded her hands in her lap. Her throat constricted automatically as she thought about Ser Jorah, the look on his face as he tried to tell her goodbye.

“Why did you think I would want to talk about him?”

“You haven’t spoken of him since the battle,” Missandei said. Her voice was sad, although it usually was. She stepped forward, closing the door quietly behind her. “I only wanted to make sure you were coping well.”

Dany looked up to meet her friend’s gaze, and the look on Missandei’s face made Dany’s heart ache. The former-slave was the only person to ask Dany about losing Jorah, and for some reason, this surprised Dany.

“I’m not,” Dany admitted.

It took no time for Missandei to rush forward and envelop Dany into a soft hug.

_JON_

Jon sat with his back to the fire, the flames licking at him even through his heavy cloak and leathers. The night was quiet around him, still and dark. Snow fell softly, landing gingerly wherever it may, and if Jon listened hard enough, he could just make out Ghost’s footsteps as he padded his way through the woods, hunting for his own food.

As the fire grew, Jon briefly wondered whether or not he could be unburnt, like Daenerys, but then he remembered a time, so long ago, that he had burned his hand defending Lord Commander Mormont.

Jon tore a piece of meat off the rabbit Arya had shot and took a bite. It didn’t taste bad, but it didn’t taste good, either; he supposed he had been a bit spoiled back at Winterfell, where the cooks (and Sansa) made sure he ate well.

Next to him, propped up on a rotting log with her legs bent so that her knees were pointed, Arya sharpened a blade. She was a quicker eater than he was, having lived so long with little to no food whatsoever. The blade was pretty, Valyrian steel, and in no need of sharpening, but perhaps Arya was only trying to keep herself busy.

“Valyrian steel,” Jon commented dryly.

Arya didn’t flinch when he spoke, although they had shared very little conversation since departing from Winterfell. Jon wasn’t sure how long they had ridden, or how far they had gone, but it had been enough to get them away from surrounding villages. They stayed away from the king’s road, for Cersei Lannister was not stupid enough to leave the road unwatched by spies. Instead, they kept to the forest, each of them on a horse, led by Ghost’s nose.

“How d’you know?” Arya asked, not bothering to pause her sharpening.

Jon shrugged and took another bite of rabbit. “Shines differently, I suppose.”

“Hm.”

Jon squinted up at the sky, his mind full of thoughts that he did not want. He hated sitting and doing nothing, but the horses couldn’t go forever, and even Ghost needed food and sleep. Jon himself rarely slept, for whenever he closed his eyes, it was Sansa he saw.

The Sansa of his nightmares was nothing like the Sansa of his dreams. The Sansa he saw when he closed his eyes was beaten, bloodied, alone… He hated the horrible images his mind conjured, and it only made him more anxious to get back on his horse and get on with the trip to King’s Landing.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Do you…” She sighed, sounding more like a child than the woman she’d grown to be. “Do you think you’ll ever marry?”

“_What_?” Jon almost choked on the meat he’d been chewing. What was it with that subject? First Daenerys, now Arya? “Why?” Arya opened her mouth, but Jon couldn’t stop his babbling. “I mean, no, not now, not… No, why?”

Arya snorted. “Seven hells, Jon, it was only a question.” She tucked her blade into her belt. “I was only wondering.” “Why?”

“Because once the war is over, you’ll be a king without a queen.”

“And?”

“And you’ll have to marry. Most every king does, you know. You have to have heirs,” Arya said. “I was only wondering if you’d thought about it.”

He had.

Oh, he had.

He had thought about Sansa in a beautiful new gown, standing under the heart tree in the godswood, waiting for him to wrap his cloak around her. He had thought about Sansa next to him at the high table, wearing a silver crown of her own, the men kneeling to her as well as him when they approached. He had thought about being bonded to her, forever, having her and being hers.

“No, I haven’t,” Jon said. He flicked a gristly bit of meat into the snow. “Why did you ask?”

Arya shrugged this time. “I just don’t want it to mess anything up,” she said quietly. Her big eyes were pinned to a spot on the ground, her hands clasped between her knees. Snowflakes fell in her hair, standing out against the dark color. “Once we get Sansa back, we’ll all be together again. I want it to stay that way.”

“It will,” Jon said, and Arya made a face. “I don’t have to marry, you know.”

“Your advisors will make sure of it,” Arya said pointedly.

“What if I promise you that I’ll only marry if I really want to?”

Arya snorted. “I’d say you’re full of horseshit and know nothing about politics.”

“I’m the king,” Jon said, a bit sternly. “I can do as I please.”

“Suppose so,” she said, brushing a snowflake from her cheek. “What about Sansa?”

Jon’s cheeks grew hot immediately. “What about her?” he asked.

“As king and her oldest… relative… you’ll be responsible for accepting requests for her hand in marriage,” Arya said. "Besides, she's the eldest Stark. She'll be expected to produce heirs."

“I know,” Jon said, his shoulders relaxing. “I’ve already rejected quite a few offers.”

“Really?” Jon scowled and nodded. “From who?”

“Mostly spoiled boys who think they’ve got a right to the Lady of Winterfell because their father is a lord of some castle,” Jon spat, fiddling with the meat he held.

“Anyone else?”

Jon’s face screwed up in disgust when he answered, “Littlefinger.”

“Oh,” Arya said quietly, and she sounded genuinely surprised. Jon turned to look at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “She never mentioned that.”

“She wouldn’t,” Jon said, narrowing his eyes at her. “He’s probably in King’s Landing right now, with her-” Jon cut himself off, unable to let himself breathe life into such a terrible idea. He tossed the rest of his meat towards Arya, unable to stomach food any longer.

“Jon, I-”

“Just drop it, alright?” Jon growled. He ran his hands over his face in an attempt to snap himself out of the rage he could feel himself slipping into. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about him anymore,” Arya said quickly.

“Really?” Jon said, turning to face her. “Just because he’s not in Winterfell means he’s not a threat anymore? He’s with Cersei, Arya. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m sure he’s not,” Arya shot back.

“And why is that?”

“Because we killed the bloody bastard!”

Jon blanched.

_Killed_ him? As in, he’s _dead_? Gone forever?

“How… Who…” Jon could scarcely get out a coherent sentence let alone string together a coherent thought.

“I talked to Bran,” Arya said, her voice lower. “I didn’t like the fact that Littlefinger was in Winterfell, so I asked Bran to watch him for me, and to watch his knights to see what they thought about him. It’s not like I could do anything if the Knights of the Vale were going to back him.”

“And Sansa? How did…”

“I told Sansa about the Knights of the Vale and their disloyalty to Littlefinger,” Arya answered. “They didn’t like him, let alone want him to be their lord. And what good was he alive if his knights weren’t even loyal to him?” At that moment, Ghost bounded up, a rabbit in between his jaws. He circled around Jon and Arya and laid behind them, so he could watch their backs. “Sansa told me about what he’d done to our Aunt Lysa, and what he’d done to her, selling her to the Bolton’s. He wasn’t of any use to any of us, and he deserved punishment for what he’d done. Sansa and I created a plan to lure him into the godswood, where the Knights of the Vale were waiting.”

“How did he fall for that?” Jon asked, breathless. He knew Littlefinger, knew him thoroughly because of all Sansa had told him. It was astounding that they had been able to outsmart him.

“Sansa got him to meet her in the godswood,” Arya said nonchalantly. “I don’t know how, exactly.”

“She didn’t…” His question trailed off miserably. Jon clenched his jaw. “Did he touch her?”

“Gods, no,” Arya snapped. Her thick eyebrows drew together accusingly. “I would’ve put Needle through his neck without a second thought.”

Jon sighed in relief. His worst fear when he had left for Dragonstone was leaving Sansa alone with Littlefinger, and he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself had something happened.

Jon shook his head, saying, “She never told me. I didn’t think much about him being absent. He’d made trips to King’s Landing before…” Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “Why didn’t she say anything?”

“I’m not sure,” Arya began, “but I don’t know how easily it would’ve been to work into conversation. Besides, it wasn’t like it didn’t bother her, watching him die. She wasn’t sad, of course, but…” Arya shrugged. “He messed up, a lot, but he got her out of King’s Landing, and for that, she’ll always be grateful.” Jon squinted at her. “Her words, not mine.”

Jon sat quietly for several moments, taking in all he had learned. Planning to kill Littlefinger wasn’t something Sansa had thought of before Arya had arrived. It couldn’t have been, for she was defending the man before Jon had left for Dragonstone. He still couldn’t quite process that she’d actually gone through with it.

_She killed Ramsay all by herself. Why shouldn’t she be able to take care of Littlefinger, too?_

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples.

“For all its worth,” he began, “I told him no.”

Arya laughed quietly. “No shit.”

Jon smiled at the sound of her laughter, so familiar yet so far away. He added quietly, “I would let her, though. If she really wanted to marry someone…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t stop her.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Arya said, “but I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that, either.”

“Why do you say that?”

Arya made a face, an uncomfortable face, one that looked like she was annoyed at herself for bringing it up. “Sansa told me things were different between you two,” Arya admitted at last, and Jon’s heart surged in his chest. “She said that things had changed, since Castle Black, and even more since taking Winterfell back.”

Jon looked at his hands, his cheeks warm. “She’s right.”

“What was it?” Arya asked. “What changed?”

Jon laughed emptily. He’d asked himself that question so many times, yet he’d never been able to come up with an answer. “I don’t know,” he answered. “One second she was my half-sister, far away in King’s Landing, and the next she was this girl on the back of a gray mare riding through the gates at Castle Black. She wasn’t the same Sansa, and I wasn’t the same Jon, but…” He shrugged helplessly. “We were still Sansa and Jon. Just different.”

“You didn’t answer my question at all,” Arya deadpanned, eliciting a grin out of Jon.

“Alright then, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Surely you’ve got some heartbroken lord out there waiting on you,” Jon teased.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” she said, and Jon’s smile grew.

“No boy, then?”

“_Gods_, you sound like Sansa,” Arya groaned.

“C’mon, tell me,” Jon pleaded, pinching her calf. Arya kicked at him, and he laughed, which made her laugh. He felt light, suddenly, lighter than he had since Sansa had been taken, and it felt good to have Arya with him. “I promise I won’t tell Sansa.”

“Sansa already knows.”

Jon’s eyebrows rose. “So there _is_ a boy?”

“No, not really,” Arya muttered. “Not anymore.” She glanced at Jon and made a face. “I don’t want to talk about boys with you. It’s weird.”

“Not for me.”

“Well, it is for me, so just shut up about it,” Arya snapped, although Jon could easily see a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Gods, Arya, you’ve grown up,” he chuckled. “Not so much the little soldier anymore. Next thing you know, Sansa will be knitting you dresses and you’ll have us calling you _my lady_.”

Within seconds, Jon had been hit squarely in the face by a massive snowball. He tumbled over from the force of it, wiping his face free from the chilly snow as quickly as he could.

“What was that for?”

“I just told you to shut up about it,” Arya said through gritted teeth, but Jon could only smile at her as he stood and brushed the snow from his clothes. “We should be getting some rest, anyway.”

Seeing no reason to object, Jon helped Arya lay down the materials they had brought along for sleeping. They stayed close to the fire, with Ghost nuzzled between them for warmth. When Jon was situated, lying on his back and blinking up into the starless sky, he laid a hand in Ghost’s fur, finding comfort in the familiarity of the direwolf.

“That’s what he called me,” Arya said quietly from the other side of Ghost. Jon said nothing, only blinked up at the sky. “_M’lady_. I hated it.”

“You would,” Jon responded softly.

Neither of them said anything for several moments. Jon knew he wouldn’t get much sleep, so he resorted to reciting his old Night’s Watch vow in his head as well as he could remember. Around the seventh or eighth time, he heard Arya’s small voice.

“We’ll get her back, won’t we?”

Jon’s chest tightened. Arya had grown so much, yet she was still the little girl who used to chase him and Robb through the courtyard, so many years ago. She had been forced to grow too fast, her childhood ripped away from her small hands. She was a warrior, yet inside that tough exterior, there was a girl who missed her sister.

“We will,” Jon said. “I promise.”

He hoped he wasn't lying to her.

**Author's Note:**

> You may notice some quotes from the show throughout this story. All credit goes to the writers, and all characters belong to George R. R. Martin.


End file.
